


The Vagabonds

by seherrons



Series: The Epitome of Humanity (Geralt x Regis) [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort, Dialogue Heavy, Friendship/Love, Kissing, Language, M/M, Sexual Content, Violence, post-Blood and Wine, post-DLC, problem solving, witcher's work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 07:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 99,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11618427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seherrons/pseuds/seherrons
Summary: “Cast aside your doubts, my friend. I would readily follow you to the end of the world and back.”Having been driven from Toussaint, Geralt sets out to travel the Path once more, but this time with the vampire Regis by his side. Together the pair encounter many strange occurrences along the road, and carry out witcher’s contracts to ensure the safety of the isolated villages their wandering takes them to on their journey towards Novigrad. What once was considered a lonely undertaking Geralt is now realising has become something sacred, something dear to his heart. After all, the loneliest paths are best walked not alone – especially when side by side with the one you love.This work is a direct sequel toTogether Or Not At All.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much again to all those who commented on the last fic! It made me really excited about writing a sequel :)
> 
> I would also like to make a brief mention that any places I've used from the books I've taken the creative liberty of editing to suit the purposes of this story. I hope you enjoy it! :)

**I.**

 

The sun could barely be seen rising above the hills that morning; a thick mist draped itself across the landscape following the chill of the night, swathing the land in an ominous, darkened cloud. The highways were deserted, and vintners stayed in the warmth and comfort of their homes, hoping to beat the cold at least a few minutes longer before work saw them heading to and fro.

A more fitting escape neither could have foreseen as two cloaked figures rode side by side upon Toussaint’s well-used paths. Saddlebags laden with victuals and horses well-fed and eager to beat the steadily worsening weather, their mount’s hooves clopped quickly upon the stone bridge spanning the canal below them as the water rolled and lapped away at the banks in a considerably calm manner. The Cockatrice Inn loomed before them on their right, and the scent of their famed crayfish chowder drove one of the riders to a halt. Indicating with a hand, the figure dismounted and strode in, his companion doing likewise.

It was a half hour later, as the fog had at last begun to disperse so as to allow the sun’s rays to gently illuminate the far peaks of the Gorgon mountain range that the two then left the inn, nodding politely to a trio of knights errant that had just led their horses into the stables. They then proceeded to ride away laughing softly as they spurred their mounts towards the northern highway.

The knights, so distracted by the promise of breakfast and the warmth afforded to them by the roaring fires of the inn, failed to notice that it was well past the sun’s first light. And that one of those cloaked figures who had so politely nodded to them was wearing twin swords strapped to his back.

It was three hours past the first stroke of dawn when Geralt of Rivia, in the company of the vampire Emiel Regis, left the duchy of Toussaint a free man once more.

 

*

 

“I must confess that even I maintain a certain degree of astonishment at so brazen a plan of yours, Geralt.”

Geralt turned his head, allowing himself a rare – though considerably less rare of late – smile at the vampire riding alongside him. They had just left the small town of Belhaven en route to Riedbrune, the border of Toussaint a half day’s journey behind them. The weather had cleared considerably since the foggy dawn that morning, and their horses whinnied and swished their tails merrily. With amusement the witcher thought back to their near escape that morning, and allowed himself a moment to savour the feeling that a well-thought out plan brought him.

“Food and wine are the only two things the people of Toussaint love more than their duchess and their realm,” the witcher explained, scanning his cat eyes out of habit over the heads of villagers that they passed by on their journey forwards, in the expectations that one of them would stop, recognise the swords on his back, and call them to a halt to ask for help with necrophages plaguing the garden or drowners stealing their boats – whatever the hell it always seemed to be these days that went wrong in small townships such as these and the overactive imaginations of the peasants who lived there. So far they didn’t get spared more than a few cursory glances, and that suited Geralt just fine.

Regis hummed, the twitch of a smile upon his lips barely visible behind the hood of the cloak he wore.

“Indeed. Yet as I have had no prior reason to trouble myself with being wary of the duchess’s guardsmen, it was a first-rate shock to me. Though the crayfish chowder was admittedly rather good.”

Geralt chuckled, looking back at his friend who wore a considerably satisfied expression upon his shadowed face. In hindsight, catching the knights at that time of day was entirely coincidental – the main reason Geralt had stopped them at the inn was only because he hadn’t eaten anything that morning. When the knights were too busy with thoughts of how to fill their bellies to notice the pair that had slipped past them later on, Geralt had allowed himself a sigh of relief as he had mounted Roach. He didn’t necessarily believe in fate, but at that moment it would seem that _something_ was on his side.

He wasn’t going to question it.

As if sensing his thoughts, Regis laughed.

“Some of the best plans are those stemmed from accidental circumstances, it would seem.”   

A mild grunt of agreement was the response he was awarded with, and the vampire allowed another smile. They rode on in silence for a while longer, each enjoying the company of the other, and though Geralt was loath to admit it, he could feel the weight on his shoulders sagging away into nothing the further the distance they put between themselves and the green hills of Toussaint.

He busied himself with focusing on the task at hand, or rather, his plans for the future and how his companion had shaped them. For not the first time since waking that morning, he found himself thinking back to the events that had transpired the previous night. Regis, arriving at Corvo Bianco, sitting with him by the fire and the pair talking in quiet voices as a full flask of mandrake was passed back and forth without a care in the world.

Regis, walking side by side with him through the estate’s winding paths in the dead of night, the moon overhead masking the valley in its silver glow as the conversation suddenly turned to matters which carried a far greater weight than either of them had known.

Regis, writhing with him upon the bed in Geralt’s room, lips crushing together and bodies clawing to get closer in a lustful embrace which left both breathless and yearning for more.

Regis, who had smiled down at him when he had awoken after finally giving into the vampire’s suggestion of sleep, and who had more than welcomed the kiss that had been Geralt’s morning greeting.

_Regis._

Geralt was no fool; it was both exhilarating yet left him, to a degree, uneasy at just _how_ easily the vampire consumed his thoughts until he could no longer think of anything else. Truthfully, as Geralt remained silent and cast stolen glances in Regis’ direction every so often as their horses trotted on, he began to realise that perhaps he was now coming to a full understanding as to exactly the types of thoughts, the types of feelings that filled Regis’ mind when he had admitted to Geralt that he was suffering from the same overwhelming feelings whenever his thoughts turned to that of the witcher.

He knew what it was, these feelings, these emotions, this tightness in his chest that just would not abate. Knew it and would embrace it, if only he knew how to. He had only ever felt like this once before, a long time ago. When it had been him and Yennefer, and the twisted magic of a djinn that had bound them together, snared them into a trap that they could not break.

Until that’s exactly what Yennefer had done. And she had at last gotten the answer that she had been seeking for so long.

_“Sorry, Yen. Magic’s gone for me.”_

He looked back at Regis again who was only a few feet ahead, his horse tossing her head proudly and enjoying the warmth of the sunshine that had at last broken through the cloud cover above.

Part of him felt that he shouldn’t trust these feelings, trust these new – and old – sensations that had made themselves known, had manifested with such intensity that he felt himself swallow thickly. Perhaps he was worried in some way – concerned, and afraid – that perhaps it was just another magic trick. That it would disappear into nothing given just a single word.

He knew he was being irrational. He knew he was being uncharacteristically childish, even. But just as he knew what he felt – knew but could not name – he also knew that it was something he didn’t want to let go of.

Regis turned his head, seeing that Geralt was not keeping pace with him. He gently reined in his horse, allowing the witcher to catch up. One look into those dark eyes under the grey cloak he wore and Geralt knew that Regis could see everything going on in his mind from his expression alone. He always prided himself on his ability to mask any transparency in his expressions and thoughts, but it never worked on Regis. Indeed, there were times when Geralt had often had to remind himself that Regis was not man but vampire, and one who had roamed this earth for well over four centuries before he had met him. The intelligence in his eyes was one which only someone with centuries of experience and knowledge could possess. So he saw it all. Everything.

Thankfully, he didn’t deign to comment. Geralt had explained to him, in his own way more or less, that it would take time for him to understand himself, understand the traitorous thoughts flying through his mind. And Regis was more than willing to wait.

“Such a maudlin look in your eyes, Geralt. In my professional opinion I’d say what you’re most in need of right now is a contract to turn your mind to matters much more pressing for a witcher.”

Geralt barked a laugh.

“Damn it, Regis.”

Regis grinned, knowing by the tell-tale appreciative jump of Geralt’s heartbeat at the sight of his fangs fully bared and not hidden behind his usual tight-lipped smile that he had won again. He didn’t mind. After all, it was worth it to see the affection stirring within the depths of those golden eyes.

And worth it still when he had taken the man’s hand and pressed his lips to his knuckles, ignoring the looks of any who had seen as they passed them by.

 

*

 

They entered the village of Riedbrune around five in the evening some four days later, having made full use of various caves and clearings safely tucked away on the sides of the roads to make camp at night since they left Belhaven. Where the weather had thankfully been somewhat decent over the past few mornings, sunshine amidst cloud cover here and there, it was not enough to have completely warded off the chill that at once returned, and with increased vigour.

The rain was a deluge as they hastily drew their hoods back over their heads, their horses snorting and carefully picking their way through the muddy soil that more than a few peasants had slipped in in their hurry to escape indoors. Around them they gazed at the thatch roof housing of small huts clustered neatly together, espying a stable next to the inn from which raucous laughter and the loud hum of voices could only just be heard over the roar of the rain.

They dismounted, guiding their horses to the relatively dry stables and leaving them in the hands of the stable boy who looked up from the wood he was carving idly with a knife upon hearing their footsteps. He jumped up to immediately take the reins of the mares, and quickly pocketed the two crowns that Regis handed to him, the lad’s face lighting up considerably. Geralt watched the action, unable to completely stop himself from shaking his head in fond, if also thoughtful, amusement. That was more pay than the boy would get in an entire year. In fact, judging by how the urchin’s eyes had positively bulged as soon as they had turned their backs and strode towards the inn, it was probably the first time he had ever seen coin in his life.

Geralt swept his eyes around to the front of the inn before them, scanning the walls quickly. Not finding what he was looking for he then turned back to the vampire beside him.

“Hate to break it to you Regis, but that kindness is gonna kick you in the ass one day,” he muttered lowly, though not unkindly. “Good deeds don’t get rewarded in these parts.”

“Perhaps,” Regis mused, pressing his gloved hand against the wooden door and swinging it inwards to allow the pair to walk through. The noise around them blared to a volume which threatened to swallow them whole, so loud it was. “But at least it will ease both my conscience and the lad’s belly somewhat. He was starved, Geralt.”

He was. The boy was thin, skeletal almost. His skin was almost as pale as the witcher and vampire’s own.

Geralt had no answer to give, for at that moment as soon as they had pulled back their hoods the noise in the inn had died down considerably, so much so that naught but the rain could be clearly discerned. It was the usual, typical response the witcher received whenever he strode into villages with the intentions of grabbing a drink and a moment to sit away from the cold; tight-knit communities such as these saw a stranger, a dangerous looking man littered with scars and armed to the teeth, swords on his back and eyes like the devil. He could only imagine what they saw when they looked at Regis beside him. They were an odd pair by all accounts, even if people knew fully well what they both were.

In that regard, Geralt was damn glad that they didn’t.

The eyes of the village continued to follow them as they walked to the innkeeper, who had slowly lowered the cloth he had been in the middle of using to clean the mug raised in his left hand. Out of the corner of their eyes they saw wives and mothers shelter their children, whispering to them to avert their gazes. The men tightened their hands around their mugs. Some had even flown their fingers down to dance warningly upon the hilts of knives or clubs. Geralt didn’t fail to notice that Regis had taken half a step closer to his side.

It was only when the innkeeper greeted them, eyes wary, that the rest of the town seemed to relax their vigil and return to whispering in hushed conversations or the slow raising of mugs and bowls of stew to hungry mouths.

“Evening, masters. What can I do for ye?”

The innkeeper was a tall man, face ruddy with the heat of the oven flames behind him. He was careful to keep his voice as pleasant as he was able.

“Evening, my good man,” Regis replied. Geralt was surprised at Regis taking the opportunity to speak for him, but he was no less grateful at any rate. He dealt with people much better than the witcher did, after all. “Would you happen to spare some food and drink for two travellers wearied by the road?”

“That’ll be five crowns a head,” the innkeeper answered, continuing once more with his prior task of cleaning the ale mug in his grip as he indicated the drinks and meals already set and cooking in the oven – what looked and smelt like, to some extent, a braised beef stew. Regis merely smiled, nodded, and placed down the required sum from the small coin purse he wore at his side. The innkeeper brightened up considerably at seeing the gold on the worn benchtop.

Regis stood back, flashing Geralt a small, secretive smile as the man hurried to pocket the coin and fetch the meals. Geralt raised an eyebrow, saying nothing but not bothering to hide the impressed look on his face in the slightest.

Apparently convinced that the two were only after a meal and seemingly nothing more, the noise in the tavern resumed as it had before they had stepped through the door; people once more began talking and laughing boisterously without a care in the world. Geralt’s attention, however, was focused mainly on the frothing mugs of ale placed down before them a moment later, and the bowls of stew soon following suit, steam curling in fine wisps above the hot meals.

“Feel free to sit wherever you’ll be wishing,” the innkeeper announced cheerfully, though it was clear that more coin for his services wouldn’t go awry if the hopeful glint in his eyes said anything about it. “Will you uh… be needing a room tonight, masters? Weather’s awful dreadful out there. Got one already made up. Clean linens. Warm fires. Only ten apiece for you good sirs.”

This time it was Geralt who placed the coin down, much to the innkeeper’s delight.

“Please,” he grunted over a swig of his cool ale. It was by no means the best brew he’d tasted, but given how the past four days had been nothing but hard riding and an occasional stop for a bite to eat from the travel bags Marlene had handed them before they had departed Corvo Bianco, nothing worked better to clear the dust from his throat and quench his thirst.

A rusted iron key was pulled from the innkeeper’s pocket and laid down next to their food.

“Up the stairs, last door on the right.”

Geralt nodded, pocketed the key and turned around, roaming his eyes over the heads of the patrons gathered. He wasn’t so much interested in finding a spare place to sit, but more so he was distracted by the state of those present. Peasants such as these were far better off than those living in the settlements throughout the war-ridden zones of Temeria, especially with Nilfgaard’s recent conquest. He saw ladies with silks instead of coarse cotton blouses, and men with clean faces and hands instead of all manner of filth and muck caked deep into their skin. More importantly, these people were used to travellers, with the settlement residing on the main road that separated the south from the north.

So why had they been so wary when he and Regis walked in?  

“I can almost hear you thinking, Geralt,” Regis said quietly, pulling Geralt from his musings. He glanced at the vampire beside him, whose mug was raised to his lips as he took a sip of his own ale. He too was watching the crowd, and it didn’t take a genius to know that he had come to the same conclusion. “A crown for your thoughts?”

Geralt smiled, settling his ale down in favour of trying the stew he’d been left. It was hot and the broth much too watery, and there was a suspicious lack of beef. But it filled his belly nevertheless.

“Might pay the ealdorman a visit later on. What d’you say?”

Regis nodded, rubbing his free hand idly against his chin.

“Even a blind man can sense that something is not right with these good folk,” he muttered knowingly. “The food is weak and the people are tense. Fear cloaks these people like a shroud – fear and anger. Yes, I’d say that finding out as much as we can should indeed be our first priority.” When he turned to Geralt once more, a tight smile was on his lips, his fangs carefully hidden from view as he saw the surprised look in his lover’s eyes. “I also noticed you searching for the noticeboard when we were outside.”

“Regis, perceptive as ever,” the witcher chuckled wryly, almost feeling the widening grin on Regis’ face when he turned around to face the innkeeper – or more appropriately, the man’s back, as he was bent over the oven pulling out more bowls of stew for a family that had come up to the counter beside them. He waited a moment for the innkeeper to serve them before clearing his throat and drawing the tall man’s attention.

“The ealdorman here?”

The innkeeper scratched his brow.

“Aye, he be here, master. If it’s him you’ll be speakin’ with he shows up for his meals round the third hour past dusk.”

“Another two hours,” Regis supplied by Geralt’s side.

“What does he look like?” Geralt asked. The innkeeper scratched his brow again, the fingers caked with broth from the stews he’d been handling now drawing a fine line of muck upon his forehead.

“Tall, portly fellow. Balding head. Say… why you be needin’ to see him?” The man scrunched his eyes up shrewdly, all manner of former hospitality seemingly forgotten in place of the evident distrust now shown them. Before either Geralt or Regis could reply, the man had drawn his eyes to the hilts of the swords upon Geralt’s back, which had now slipped out from under the hood of his cloak when the witcher had shifted upon the chair he had sat himself on. Recognition sparked in the man’s eyes immediately. “Ye Gods – you be a witcher?!"

Geralt wanted to point out that normally the eyes gave it away first but he stayed his tongue, if only because the man didn’t look particularly bright concerning matters outside enterprise and recognising the colour gold on anything besides coins.

“I am.”

It seemed to him that the innkeeper sighed with relief.

“It be good you stoppin’ by here then, sirs,” he whispered in hushed tones, leaning in closer to the pair over the counter. “Ealdorman had put out a notice on the board outside some few days ago. Had to take it down ‘cos o’ the weather but he’ll be mighty glad to see you.”

“What’s been going on?” Regis asked, standing to attention beside Geralt, his brows creased in concentration as he hung onto the man’s every word. The innkeeper turned his attention to him.

“Don’t rightly know, but it be bad. Somethin’s unsettlin’ the folk. All we can do is stay indoors but we’re hungry and more oft than not we fear we’ll die of starving.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, then indicated the bowl of stew before him.

“What about the meals you’re serving tonight?”

The innkeeper sighed morosely.

“Last month’s rations we received from the last caravan that what passed through here. Our crops’ve been suffering aplenty of late – can only hope the rain will put a right to it. First rainfall we’ve had in ages. As it is this be the fourth night in a row we’ve had to re-use the broth. Barely anythin’ else but the ale after this goes.”

Geralt promptly pushed his plate away.

“Do you know why the ealdorman needed to hire a witcher?” Regis asked softly. “It seems to me that a bad harvest this year is at fault.”

The innkeeper fixed him with a defeated stare.

“Would that I knew, master,” he muttered. And that was the end of the brief, and troubling, conversation. The innkeeper had been called over to the other side of the bar by two older men demanding another round of ale. Geralt gently nudged Regis to turn around, his hand sliding down his back in a gesture that went unnoticed by any save themselves. Seeing no need to talk, at least for now – given the lack of privacy or quiet for the pair to fully collect their thoughts – they settled themselves down and finished off their drinks, eyes constantly scanning over the heads of those gathered and the front door in the hopes that the ealdorman would soon show himself.

They didn’t have to wait long, despite the estimate of a couple of hours’ worth that the innkeeper had given them.

Barely a half hour later had the door opened and a great hulk of a man walked in, stomach bulging and swaying with each step that he took. His head was near completely bald and his silken doublet was flecked with rain, which had lessened considerably since Geralt and Regis had entered the inn. Even without the innkeeper’s quiet murmur to them that that was the man they had been asking about, it was plain to see given the reactions of the peasants gathered inside. People nodded to him, welcomed him inside, and a couple had even moved out of their seats by a considerably quieter corner to let him sit down.

He couldn’t have been more than fifty years old. His eyes were cold as stone.

Sharing a glance, Geralt stood from the stool he had been sitting on, as did Regis beside him. They thanked the innkeeper and walked over to the man sitting by himself, the flames of the fireplace against his back. He watched them with beady little eyes when he noticed the strangers approaching him, and he straightened in his seat when they stood by the head of the table. It was a long time before either of the three spoke, until the ealdorman was the first to break the silence. His voice was gruff and hoarse sounding.

“Who might you two be?”

Geralt gestured to himself and the vampire.

“Geralt of Rivia. Emiel Regis. Just passing through here, heard about your notice.”

The ealdorman didn’t even blink. Then he noticed the swords on Geralt’s back and studied his eyes carefully. 

“You a witcher?”

Geralt nodded. The ealdorman indicated the spare seat in front of him, to which the witcher and vampire occupied silently. The ealdorman watched them quietly a moment more before lifting a hand and waving to the innkeeper, raising his voice to a loud bark.

“Dennis, three rounds of ale!”

The innkeeper – known as Dennis – nodded and set about the request immediately.

“About bloody time. Notice’s been hanging out there for weeks,” the ealdorman groused, crossing his arms over the huge girth of his chest. “How soon until you start figuring out what the hell’s been happening to my town?”

Geralt blinked.

“Haven’t actually had a look at the notice yet,” he answered. “Innkeeper said it was taken down because of the weather. We’ve only just arrived.”

The look with which the man fixed them with was far too reminiscent of the icy glare the duchess had given Geralt that morning in Toussaint, when she had first ordered him driven away. He didn’t react.

“Bloody figures.” A grumbled sigh followed, but was soon broken off into a noisy, careless slurp from one of the mugs that Dennis had now placed down in front of them. Geralt and Regis didn’t bother with their own mugs, having had their fill of the – considerably poor – booze already. Instead they contented themselves with watching the man; Geralt could see out the corner of his eye that Regis was sizing him up with a glance, taking in every detail. The man was by all means repulsive, and both Geralt and the vampire had learnt from many an experience from the last time they had travelled together all those years ago that characters such as these often needed one eye kept on them at all times. The witcher knew he wouldn’t be surprised if come morning a raven had been sent out to keep watch of him.

The ealdorman belched loudly, wiped his mouth loosely on the back of his sleeve, and sighed as he leant back against the wall. He looked from one to the other, sizing them up just as they were doing likewise, and he spared a brief nod to the crowd of villagers seated down behind them.

“You’ll have to forgive the people here. Been some time since we’ve seen nary a traveller on the road, what with the war up north. It’ll take a while still, folk only just now braving to venture the highways again. And what with the stories heard tell about the goings on in the south lately… their caution is well placed.” He paused, belched again, and glared distrustfully. “Lately people from here to Belhaven have been too afeared to leave their homes. So what brings you here? Can’t’ve just been the notice. Where’re you from?”

Geralt and Regis looked at one another, silently questioning in their glances how much to tell the man. Regis turned his head and cleared his throat softly.

“Toussaint. We’re seeking to travel northwards.”

The ealdorman whistled lowly.

“Well bugger me. What about the vampires? Entire bloody duchy’d been slaughtered by the blood sucking cunts last I heard.”

Regis blinked, Geralt meanwhile slipping his hand down under the table to rest lightly upon the vampire’s knee. It was a needless gesture, but one that brought both of them comfort at the very least.

“Not the entire duchy, no,” Regis answered slowly. “The land is much the same as it was before. Thankfully the issue was resolved reasonably quickly despite some of the casualties.” He cast another glance to Geralt when the ealdorman had gone to pick up his ale again. The witcher merely tightened his hold upon Regis’ knee.

Returning his beady eyes to them, the ealdorman gave the remarkable impression that he didn’t care either way. Waving a hand as if to visibly indicate the change of topic, he belched once more and crossed his arms over the table, leaning in.

“Down to business. You want to know what’s going on, I’ll tell you. Hunger, that’s what. Not just any hunger. Some monster has been stealing valuable grain from the storage every night the moon shows. Find it. Kill it.” He leaned back.

Geralt arched an eyebrow.

“Monster? What kind of monster? Gonna need more information than that. Besides, no monster I know of is in the habit of stealing grain from a village, moon showing or not.”

Those beady little eyes narrowed in on him, much like a vice clamping down.

“ _You’re_ the bloody witchers, you should know!”

Regis was unable to fully hide the small smile at the corner of his lips at having been regarded as such by the man in front of them. Geralt saw this and tried his hardest to not allow a smile of his own to show. The ealdorman continued, having not noticed the exchange.

“For fuck’s sake – moon shows, there’s howling in the woods by the village soon after, use your bloody noggins! It’s _clearly_ a werewolf!”

This time Regis arched a brow.

“A werewolf?” He repeated.

By now the ealdorman was looking at them as if they had each suddenly grown three heads.

“Are you fucking dense or what? A fucking werewolf, yes! Man what turns into a dog in the middle of the night and preys on children and virgins – and for lack of those has now gone on to steal our grain! He’s making us desperate, easier to kill! Find the bastard, skin him alive, and maybe my fucking town will finally get some fucking peace and _food!”_

“Any idea why just the grain is being targeted?” Geralt asked.

This time the ealdorman near flew into a rage.

“How the fuck should I know?! That’s why I hired professionals! People I’m paying for _results_ , not asking damn _questions!_ ”

There was silence for a minute – the noise in the tavern had died out instantly the second people had heard the ealdorman raise his voice. Geralt cleared his throat, shifting a little in his seat and trying to stay as calm as possible, despite the idiocy of the entire situation.

“How much are you willing to pay us? Contracts like these… rare as they are… when dealing with a werewolf the risks are significantly greater than clearing out a few drowners or asking restless spirits to leave nicely.” At this point he was half convinced a restless spirit had smacked the ealdorman upside the head. _A witcher’s life is never dull_ , he mused.

“Three hundred crowns. _Just_ three hundred,” the man warned, making sure to cut in before either of them questioned if the fee was three hundred for them each, or the single sum for their combined services. Neither of them batted an eyelid, having fully expected it to be the latter.

Geralt stood from his seat, Regis following suit.

“Agreed,” Geralt announced. The ealdorman almost looked pleased.

“We shall have to conduct our investigations on the morrow, if only because the weather is still somewhat unfavourable,” Regis added after a quick glance out the window. It was still raining. The ealdorman looked less pleased.

“Fine. Just get it done.”  

They were waved away without so much as another word. Geralt turned, raising both brows and making a show to exhale softly through his teeth. Regis’ lips quirked but he remained silent, merely brushing the folds of his cloak neatly down around himself as he fell into step beside the witcher, the pair striding towards the staircase that they could see on the far left. Feeling for their room key in the folds and pockets of his armour, Geralt held it out at the ready when they drew further towards the room that was to be their lodgings for the evening, down on the far right-hand side of the second floor, as directed to them by Dennis earlier on.

The floorboards were so old that they creaked under the lightest of steps, as proven by their advances down the hall. The heavy smell of dust and aged wood and timber hit their noses, and when Geralt had turned the key in the lock of their door it screeched as if this was the first time it had been used in centuries. It was even harder to push the door open, as stuck as it was – perhaps due to the weather. When they finally did manage it to walk into their lodgings, eyes raised and darting to and fro, a quick inspection proved that their low expectations had paid off; in this room were two beds barely holding together with sheets spread out over straw, a small fireplace which looked more like the remaining cinders of a campfire as it had obviously never been cleaned and was burnt as black as tar, and a singular window which wasn’t high enough to see fully over the top of the stables.

But it was warm and it was better than nothing. And much to Geralt’s satisfaction especially, it was quiet.

“Well, quite a predicament we seem to have found ourselves thrown into,” Regis mused thoughtfully, loosening his cloak and draping it over one of the beds. Geralt grunted in reply, dashing the fireplace with a blast of Igni and savouring the added warmth that greeted him in the dancing of the orange flames. For a fireplace that had clearly never been cleaned, it still worked remarkably well. He turned his attention back to the vampire, shrugging off his own cloak as he did so, followed by his swords which he placed carefully by the wall, and he smiled to see that Regis was watching him fondly.

“Definitely not the worst contract I’ve taken, but by far the most… interesting,” the witcher agreed. Regis chuckled.

“By that of course you mean that this isn’t even a contract at all?”

“More like the rantings of a madman if you ask me.”

“And yet,” the vampire stood up, striding next to Geralt to join him at the fireplace after the witcher had turned back to savour once more in its warmth, “the madman does raise a few valid and interesting points. One cannot ignore the hunger gripping this town. And that the certain circumstances that led to his abrupt conclusion are of a regular occurrence.”

Geralt hummed, rolling his shoulders to free the tension from his muscles after a long day in the saddle. He felt two long nailed hands come up to rest on the back of his neck, which then moved further down to the worn muscles in question and began to rhythmically knead ever so gently. And because they were alone Geralt didn’t bother to stifle the low, pleased groan that pulled from his throat.

He felt Regis step closer, his lips brushing Geralt’s jaw in a soft yet sensual caress.

“But one thing, admittedly, troubles me above all else in this curious scenario,” and Regis pulled back only to dip his hands lower down Geralt’s shoulders, continuing that slow, rhythmic kneading that was quickly turning the witcher’s knees weak underneath him, “and that is of the ealdorman himself.”

Geralt opened his eyes, having closed them for a moment as soon as he had felt the other’s hands on him.

“He’s too well off for the rest of the town,” he concluded, and though he couldn’t see it he knew that Regis was nodding his agreement. Geralt’s brows furrowed as he reflected on his words. “Not to mention he’s the only one who doesn’t seem to be on the verge of eating the horses. Too shifty… got defensive when we asked him questions.” He turned fully, facing his lover and stepping in to press a slow kiss to his lips. The hands on his shoulders slid to his waist, pulling him closer.

“Mhm… knows too much but says too little. All too familiar with his type.” Geralt pressed another slow kiss to those soft lips, and Regis hummed his agreement once more, this time against Geralt’s mouth whilst threading a hand upwards into the thick white strands of his hair.

“A prime suspect indeed.”

“Don’t even pretend you’re not gonna send your ravens after him.”

Regis smiled, dancing his mouth lightly against the corner of Geralt’s lips and gripping his hip tighter in his free hand.

“The thought never crossed my mind.”

Geralt scoffed at that, amused despite himself. At least those birds wouldn’t be following him for once. He pulled back a little only so as to begin unstrapping the buckles of his armour, needing to get out of the damp leather that had begun to finally stick to the linen of his shirt underneath.     

“Let us see what we have here: before us is a man who has, whether willingly or no, drawn suspicion to himself by his strange insistence to avoid answering questions. He has sent out for the services of a witcher, or witchers, as I must now apparently classify myself as such,” Regis began, stepping back himself and stroking his chin and bottom lip in thought as he paced slowly in front of the fireplace whilst Geralt busied himself with his clothes, “to see to the stopping and subsequent slaying of what he has convinced himself is the resulting work of a werewolf who has tired of molesting women and eating children all in favour of turning his wrath to the town’s grain storage instead. These occurrences are frequent, and always under the light of the moon.”

“If it wasn’t for that last part his claim would’ve made sense. Werewolves are typically active by moonlight, especially the full moon,” Geralt added, slinging the leather breastplate of his armour off and placing it down by the fire to dry somewhat. “Still never heard of one going after a grain storage, though. Can’t be a werewolf.”

“There was howling in the woods each time the grain was stolen,” Regis pointed out, looking back at the man. Geralt shrugged.

“If wolves hunt in the area, sure. Probably much more likely a single pack is at fault here.”

“A pack of wolves stealing the grain?”

Geralt had to admit the idea was as stupid as it sounded. He sighed. Regis on the other hand chuckled to himself, beginning to slowly divest himself of his own damp clothes. His smile soon faded.

“It also leaves me to ponder the question of just _why_ is the grain being stored? The people are clearly starving. They’ve nothing to eat except rations they reuse to the point of being entirely inedible.”

Geralt’s eyes darkened, the thought having bothered him for some time, too.

“Dunno. That at least I wanna find out.”

Regis nodded solemnly at that. And, seeing the mood his lover was in, he deigned to lighten the situation as best he could.

“So I am correct in assuming that despite how incredibly nonsensical this contract is, you have no doubts about investigating the matter further tomorrow evening?” He looked up, fixing Geralt with a knowing smile when he saw the witcher sitting down on one of the beds, now devoid of his shirt and leather breeches and cat eyes locked on the vampire with one eyebrow arched.

“You’re enjoying this,” Geralt stated bluntly. Regis grinned, baring his fangs in the process.

“The whole thing is a mystery. Of course I am.”

Geralt barked a short laugh, rubbing a palm down his face in a small show of fond exasperation. He reached out, beckoning with his finger for Regis to walk over.

“Hurry up and come to bed.”

Regis didn’t need any convincing, still grinning widely as he shrugged the last of his tunic off, strode over, and met Geralt halfway in another slow, deep kiss.

 

*

 

He remembered well the morning they had left; each intricate detail seared itself into his memory as if he was in danger of forgetting it otherwise. Despite all that had happened, all that _would_ happen, nothing could dampen the mood he had awoken in – not even the darkness of the sky or the knocking on his door as his majordomo hurriedly insisted he wake and get ready for the road, lest the knights stopped by and caught him still in the duchy.

Those first few seconds of wakefulness were first devoted to spurring his limbs to move and his thoughts to fully function after the refreshing lull that his rest had put his mind in. They were also devoted to looking up into the dark eyes of the vampire above him, Regis offering a small smile and a stroke of a hand down Geralt’s jaw.

He remembered well the night before, the revelations of heartfelt matters and the hot flood of passion that had followed, sweeping through them both with the raw force of something wild, yet still subdued. He had wanted it, he had decided this when he had been lain on his back, helpless to do nothing but gasp and grip at pale skin as that willowy, firm body swayed and rubbed against him, seeking pleasure but being careful, cautious all the same. Taking it slowly, as Regis had wanted and as Geralt had agreed. He knew though that when the time would come he would want it all, want to give in and give himself completely, but until then he could not. Not now. Not just yet. His chest had ached with something intense, all-consuming and altogether foreign. He knew what it was, what it still was, but he couldn’t trust himself. Not just yet.

But he could trust him. He always had. And he always would.

Looking into those dark eyes that morning, Geralt wasn’t surprised in the slightest to find that none of his thoughts had changed. Something had shifted between them – something that had drawn them together, indefinitely. Friendship that had grown, had morphed into something that could not be described, breathless it was to even think of it. He knew well Regis’ feelings for him, and in a way he had even suspected them from the very start – and just as soon as he could break down those last remaining barriers in his head, those last few tugs of restraint that demanded him to calm down, assess the situation, weigh all the pros and cons, he would be the first to reciprocate in the way that they both knew how.

But as it was, here, right now, waking up that foggy morning in Corvo Bianco nestled together under the warm sheets of the bed, bodies touching and hands slowly trailing over skin, mapping each twitch of muscle and each soft sigh to memory, Geralt would remember this moment, remember and savour it. He would allow himself to indulge in the softness of those lips, and the dizzying bliss that quickly followed as his hands slid down that pale back, pulling his lover’s weight closer still against him.

Regis chuckled, smiling and gripping either side of Geralt’s neck with long fingered hands, swallowing the pleased groans that issued from the witcher's throat. The knocking at the door became insistently impatient, and Geralt pulled away with a sharp cuss when it became a distracting racket.

“Sir, you really must get ready!”

“Geralt, it’s already dawn,” Regis added, in far softer and less urgent tones than B.B. Geralt sighed, knowing they were both right. He sat up when Regis pulled back, already standing from the bed and locating the rest of their shirts and belongings. With a yawn, Geralt stood and stretched and caught the shirt passed to him. Slipping it on and finding his armour, swiftly fastening each strap, lace and buckle with well-practiced efficiency, it was only another few minutes until the door was opened.

Barnabas-Basil didn’t comment when he saw that Geralt was not alone when the pair strode out to the foyer to meet him, but he quickly passed Geralt his swords, and with hurried words told them that the rest of his belongings left behind would be sent off immediately to The Chameleon in Novigrad when the courier arrived at the estate in the afternoon.

All it was were a few books and mementos from his various contracts undertaken whilst in Toussaint, but Geralt thanked B.B. for his efforts nevertheless. The following few minutes passed in a whirlwind: the servants had all gathered outside, and the horses were saddled. The majordomo had gone to immediately send for a second mount soon after Regis had arrived the previous night, and as always his choices were impeccable. The mare was kind-tempered and had no qualms about the vampire, and when Geralt questioned B.B. about his foresight into the matter Regis had told him that he had requested the horse when the man had greeted him at the door.

Admittedly, he hadn’t known whether Geralt would agree to his company on the road or not, and had asked for the mare if only to keep a low profile and to avoid suspicion whilst travelling along the ducal highway, should they part their separate ways for good on the morrow. Given the recent events in Beauclair, it would be far safer to blend in as thoroughly as possible, and to not be seen walking around at night. So it was with small shared smiles that they had both simultaneously agreed that it was fortunate in more ways than one how last night’s events had gone for the better, and that they would be travelling alongside one another once more.

Marlene had packed their saddlebags full with victuals aplenty, and the tears stained her wizened cheeks as she pulled them both down and imparted kisses on their brows. She promised to visit them in Novigrad, and with a final wave to the servants gathered and after the majordomo’s embrace and claps to the back, passing heart-felt thanks for all he had done for them and hearing the man’s well-wishes for the journey ahead and of his desires to see them once again, they had mounted their horses and rode off, the fog draping over the valley in sweeping tendrils that lasted until late afternoon when they had long since gone.

He was woken from these memories swirling like dreams within his head by the feel of something pressing against his brow.

Opening his eyes immediately, Geralt tightened his hand around the arm draped across his waist, Regis’ body a warm weight on his back as the vampire contented himself with the close proximity of the man before him, and of ensuring that he woke him in as gentle a way as he knew how. He could feel those lips parting into a smile on his forehead, followed by another kiss soon after, and Regis’ arm wound tighter still around his hip. They had quickly grown used to this on the road; each night, in those caves or clearings by the sides of the highways, they would rest and Geralt would awake with the vampire draped closely around him, hand on his waist and lips on his brow. He never said it out loud, but he relished the closeness, relished the care, the feel of a warm body beside his. That this warm body was Regis didn’t even matter as much as it should have, and given the addiction, the intoxication with this vampire that had grown, burst into something both primal and treasured, Geralt would have been a hypocrite to have turned him away. It had also been that first night on the road when Geralt had thought of him as not just a friend, but also something more akin to a lover. The fire within him had burned at the thought, and his chest ached eagerly in response.

Now though, he was aching with something completely different. Something closer to hunger.

“What time is it?” He grunted, slowly shifting in the bed and sitting upright. Regis watched, head turned to glance out the window.

“Not yet midday,” he answered. “I must say you slept remarkably well. You didn’t kick me this time.”

Geralt winced, remembering that little incident from their first night in Corvo Bianco, not merely half an hour after he had first closed his eyes to sleep. In his defence, as he had quickly apologised to a deeply amused looking Regis, he was not in the habit of sleeping so close to someone. It was no wonder his instincts had kicked in, his senses alert and hyper responsive particularly after the flood of oxytocins that had sharpened his mind to a point when they had been enthralled with each other upon the bed. Seeing Geralt’s reaction now, Regis smiled and stood up, the covers falling from his bare chest and giving Geralt something to focus his appreciative gaze on as the vampire set about picking his clothes from the floor.

That was when he felt his stomach growl in protest, and remembered the kind of food they served here. He felt the hunger dissipate almost instantly.

“Need to start heading around town… ask some of the locals if they know anything more,” the witcher muttered, rubbing his brow and getting up himself. Regis nodded.

“First, a bath then a small bite to eat. From the saddlebags,” he added, seeing the look on Geralt’s face.

“You’re not in any particular hurry to get to the bottom of this,” Geralt noted.

“What else can we do, Geralt?” Regis asked. “By all means we can go ahead and ask the townsfolk, but we are powerless to do any worthwhile investigating until nightfall. Besides, I have already taken care of the first matter. At least to some extent.”

“You sent your ravens after the ealdorman, didn’t you?”

“Of course. By the time we are somewhat more refreshed they should have some information for us.”

Geralt paused, considering this fact for a moment. Then he shook his head and took his shirt from Regis’ offering hand.

“Could’ve used something like that myself all the other times I was on a contract with close to fuck all to go on,” he muttered, allowing Regis’ ravens one rare moment of begrudging respect. A hand rested on his shoulder, squeezing sympathetically. Regis didn’t say anything, but Geralt could see exactly how amused the vampire was. He rolled his eyes, shaking his head once more and then nodding in the direction of the door.

“Let’s get cleaned up.”     

 

*

 

The rain had abated over the course of the night, leaving nothing but the earthy scent of its remains upon the wet soil and muddy grounds when the pair left the inn, feeling at least moderately cleaner than they had since first arriving after the lukewarm bath Dennis had directed them to. They first visited the stables to check up on their mares, Roach greeting Geralt with a toss of her head and a soft nicker to which the witcher answered by running a hand down her neck and a pat to her rump. Regis’ mare, a stout grey who had been given the honourary name of Draakul in memory of a mule that he had once owned, snorted softly and bowed her head to his shoulder. When Geralt had asked about the name of the horse the second day of their journey, still having not quite learnt what such a name was meant to mean in the ancient vampiric tongue, Regis had cheerfully responded by saying that it was still untranslatable, but by all means the witcher could continue to try his best to figure it out.

Geralt had then given up, letting the vampire chuckle merrily away to himself.

They sorted through the saddlebags, making sure that their food and various other possessions were still intact, and seeming pleased that they were and that the horses at least were well-fed, they turned and stepped through the mud and wet grass in search of answers to the puzzling situation that was the contract they had been issued with the night prior. The sun broke through the scattered remnants of rainclouds that coursed through the sky in swift swirling patterns, and the blindingly sharp glare of the light reflected off the puddles was taking its toll on those people who walked past around them.

Squinting their eyes and blinking once then twice, they grumbled to each other their morning greetings, and no one paid even a thought to the witcher and vampire striding leisurely side by side, completely unaffected.

Two ravens flew by overhead, cawing once, and Regis looked up, giving a barely perceptible nod. Geralt noticed this however, and he followed his friend as Regis indicated with a finger to walk with him towards the outstretch of houses lined side by side out of the main square. When they had drawn together under the shade of one of the thatched roofs, Regis raised his hand and one of the ravens that had been circling the sky around them swooped down, alighted on the proffered arm, and cawed in a slow, rhythmical pattern for some time. Then Regis spoke.

“The ealdorman has gone away on business,” he began in quiet tones so as to avoid drawing any unwanted attention, “to a neighbouring village within which he deals with a group of men thrice weekly.”

“What’s the name of this village?”

“It has no name.” Regis looked at him. “It was once part of Riedbrune itself but due to Nilfgaard’s influence over the south and the imperial control they still maintain in Toussaint, they had broken it off some ten years ago and set it up as a logging site. It’s a common stop for soldiers on the road, with the availability of crafting resources for armour and weaponry.”

Geralt nodded his head.

“Huh. Interesting. Your friend say what business he went there for?”

“Yes, though I’m afraid it won’t particularly help our investigations here. He was signing for three carts of blacksmith’s tools to be delivered to Riedbrune the following week.”

Geralt sighed, gazing at the raven on Regis’ arm as if in the hopes that by glaring at it, the bird would suddenly come up with something more useful. It simply stared right back at him with those beady black little eyes. It reminded him somewhat of the ealdorman and his gaze last night. He turned back to the vampire.

“Oh come now, Geralt,” Regis smiled reassuringly, “we’ve learnt that the ealdorman leaves the village regularly. I would have thought that you would be jumping for joy at the prospect of visiting his home to gather vital clues in his absence.”

Geralt scoffed.

“Given any other circumstance I would be,” he muttered drily. The raven uttered an indignant caw. Regis deigned not to translate, though the witcher didn’t miss how his lips curved upwards into a smirk.

“Fine, so we go to his house, look around. The villagers are avoiding us like the plague and the innkeep doesn’t know anything. Maybe the stable hand might have something to say.” Geralt crossed his arms over his chest.

“Hm, and perhaps a quick inspection of the granary,” Regis added, looking back at the raven which then cawed once more and spread its wings, flying from the vampire’s arm and disappearing into the trees overhead. “I doubt the supposed werewolf showed itself last night due to the downpour, but perhaps some old tracks still remain.”

Geralt looked at him, a thoughtful gaze entering his cat eyes.

“Sure you weren’t a witcher in a previous life?”

Regis glanced at him.

“Sometimes I wonder if that wouldn’t have been more preferable.”

 

*

  

The stable hand knew nothing, and he was just as wary as the rest of the villagers were. Geralt felt sorry for the lad; it wasn’t until the promise of more coin made itself known that the boy bothered to open his mouth long enough to tell them that he knew nothing at all about why the town was so short on food, swearing by his mother’s grave in doing so. Geralt wasn’t sure whether the mother would appreciate that. 

The blacksmith was no help either – not even when they asked about the tools the ealdorman had sent out for. The blacksmith had requested them, and the ealdorman had delivered. End of story. He had then grunted that they best be on their way before he clobbered both of them over the head with a poker. Geralt had just been about to calm the situation with a succinct twist of his fingers and a call of the Sign of Axii if need be, when Regis had beaten him to it. He diffused the tension with naught but the blink of an eye and a heartfelt word of apology for disturbing the man and his work, and the blacksmith grumbled his response and went back to the flames of his forge.

“How about we make a deal – you stick to the interrogations and I’ll be the hired muscle,” Geralt chuckled when they drew up shortly afterwards to the front of the ealdorman’s house, a well-kept lodging with ivy crawling up the lengths of the doorframes and window panes. He heard the vampire laugh and he smiled.

“I would say that until we think of another way to use our particular negotiating talents to the best of their abilities, I am willing to give that a shot,” Regis answered warmly. His brows then creased and a look of contemplation crossed his pale features. “It would be pointless trying to look for a key.”

Geralt was only half-listening; he’d walked towards the window and peered inside, trying to see past the grime of the glass to determine if the house was empty. So far he couldn’t see anything aside from a few tables and chairs and a writing desk in the far corner of the living room, but that alone wasn’t enough to go on.

“Damn. Should’ve asked if he lives alone,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.

“Can you imagine anyone in their right minds willing to share the same space as that vile man?” Regis asked quietly beside him. Geralt pulled back from the window.

“Good point.”

He was just about to say something else when Regis threw him a smile over his shoulder, offered a sly wink, and evaporated into a sudden cloud of grey mist. Geralt took a step back, feeling momentarily disoriented, and he stood there with brows arched and a sharp question ready on his lips until the front door opened and Regis stood there, beckoning the man to quickly walk in before someone saw them.

Casting another glance around him, Geralt strode inside. Regis closed the door behind him.

“Still gonna take a while to get used to that,” Geralt groused, following the vampire who had taken the lead and had begun directing them towards what looked to be the office; the desk that Geralt had eyed from outside was littered with slips of yellowed parchment, and the metallic smells of old inkpots with their ink still inside. Regis reached a hand out to gently cup it against Geralt’s cheek in a silent gesture of apology, and then quickly directed his attention again towards the stacks of paper he was now leafing through.

“Next time I will be sure to offer you a verbal warning beforehand,” Regis commented offhandedly, and Geralt shook his head in amusement before picking up the second half of the papers that his lover passed to him. “Now, what do we have here?”

“Looks like your run-of-the-mill tax forms, requests from the villagers, orders for the weapons and armour from that village you mentioned earlier…” Geralt looked around again, taking in the room they were standing in. The furniture and upholstery was old and well-used, and reeked of the heavy musky smell of dust and stale fabric. The fireplace was in reasonable condition however, as was the kitchen at the far end of the house, from what he could see. Much better condition than the inn, anyway. There was also a bed in the far corner layered with sheets of thick wool. A veritable luxury home, compared to the state of every other village house the witcher had ever seen. It wasn’t surprising however, given that the ealdorman was known to trade in local business. “Can’t see anything too out of the ordinary here.”

“Mm, I must concur,” Regis agreed, straightening himself up and stroking his chin in idle thought. “Geralt, would this cabinet by any chance have a false drawer?”

Geralt turned to the cabinet that Regis was gesturing to; stood next to the desk, it was equal in height and contained three draws carved out of solid oak. It looked sturdy, at first glance. And about as ordinary as the rest of the place.

“Wanna find out?” He asked. Regis nodded.

“Yes, I believe I do. One must never overlook all the possibilities, no matter how ridiculous at first they may seem.”

Geralt couldn’t argue with that logic, and so he and the vampire closed in on the cabinet, fingers sliding over each nook and cranny they could reach, feeling for some kind of hidden mechanism that would prove their theory correct. They found it. Right behind the bottom right leg.

“Aha,” Regis smiled, seeming pleased with their handiwork when a tell-tale click could be heard from lower down. Sure enough a small rectangular box then thumped neatly onto the stone floor below them, utterly plain in its simple craftsmanship, but nevertheless carrying with it a certain degree of mystery. They looked at each other for a moment, and then stooped down to pick it up and place it on the desk.

“Well, well, well…” Geralt whistled. “What have we here?” He opened the box, finding himself gladdened though somewhat confused at no evident lock anywhere to be seen, and the three envelopes that fell out and floated down towards the table made both witcher and vampire freeze in place where they stood.

They were each stamped with a red wax seal bearing the golden sun of Nilfgaard.

“The plot thickens by the minute,” Regis muttered, picking up one of the papers and inspecting it closely. It was addressed to the ealdorman, his name written out on the front of the envelope in a thin, neat script, as were the next two they inspected. He made to open one.

“Looking through the guy’s mail,” Geralt grinned as Regis neatly removed the wax, slipping his deft fingers into the open envelope to pull out the thin slip of paper inside, “what will people say?”

“Oh I’m certain I can get myself out of it some way or the other,” Regis announced cheerfully. “Besides, he’s already looked at these.”

Geralt blinked.

“What?”

Regis showed him the back of the wax seal, which had only been loosely refastened onto the envelope when he had gone to open it. Geralt cleared his throat, turning his attention instead to the paper that the vampire was now holding out in front of them, and he peered over Regis’ shoulder as their eyes flicked from line to line.

“Seems our friend’s in the good graces of the local army camp,” Geralt concluded after he had finished, having noted that the ealdorman had been commended for the supplies he had delivered to the imperial quartermaster of the small unit that had been located in the nearby forests, back when Nilfgaard had first moved up from the south towards the northern regions of Temeria. These papers weren’t recent. But they were still exceedingly interesting, nevertheless.

“It still provides precious little clues towards our current situation, but I daresay we can use the information here to help us piece together the puzzle that is the ealdorman himself,” Regis commented, looking through the other two envelopes and confirming that the papers in there all said more or less the same thing as the first. He placed them neatly back in their envelopes, reattached the wax seals, and nestled them once more into the box and slid it back into its base under the cabinet. Another click could be heard as the compartment closed over.

He straightened up, looking at the witcher.

“I think we’ve learned all there is to learn from this place.” Geralt nodded his agreement, and the pair quickly walked to the door, checking to make sure that no one from the village was walking by before stepping out. Geralt waited as Regis informed him that he would be locking the door, and he leant his back against the uneven surface of the nearby window frame whilst the vampire vanished once more into a mist, reappearing directly in front of the witcher some few seconds later.

“Still think you’d have made a great burglar.”

Regis uttered a short laugh.

“Perhaps one day.” He offered another wink and strode off, Geralt following. By now the sun had passed its zenith at this point, the weather growing cooler at the onset of the late afternoon. The clouds continued to sail past in the sky, but thankfully showed no sign of more rainfall. The walk to the granary was silent, and their eyes were alert for anything that would shine some light on their suspicions.

Nothing jumped out at them, nothing that gave any indication that anything unusual was going on. And when they appeared out the front of the granary, which was situated just outside the township, surrounded by a clearing on all sides, the clues continued to remain just as hidden as the letters of commendation that the ealdorman kept lying in his home.

“There’s too many tracks. People’ve walked through here all day,” Geralt announced with ire in his voice as he took to kneeling down, eyes running over the imprints in the mud before him. He saw the faint outlines of men’s shoes, some women’s, and a few children and animals – mainly wild dogs and birds. Nothing that indicated a werewolf, but then again it still wasn’t night.

Regis glanced up at the warehouse, brows furrowed in concentration as he looked at the solid craftsmanship of the granary. It wasn’t by any means impenetrable, the lock being only loosely closed around the door's handles which proved very easy indeed to open and remove with quick work from the vampire's hands. Walking inside, he noted the sacks of grain that remained. Enough to feed a whole village. He called Geralt inside.

“Shit,” the witcher growled when he saw. 

“Enough to feed a village, but not enough to last them until next winter,” Regis confirmed as he stepped between the sacks and planks of wood strewn haphazardly around the place. A rat squeaked from somewhere in the shadows. He span around, anger clear in his usually calm and composed features. “Just what in the hell does the man think he’s doing?”

“Believe me, you’re not the only one who wants to find out,” Geralt muttered. “He’s keeping it here for something. Just need to find out what.”

“If I’d have to stake a bet on it I’m more inclined to believe that his Nilfgaardian friends have a part to play in all this,” Regis sighed, running a hand over his face and slowly walking back outside. Geralt considered his words.

“It’d make sense. We know he’s in league with them. Dunno how far back it goes though, but…” he paused, glancing again at the granary behind him. “Nilfgaard’s no longer in the area. Pretty sure all their forces pulled out when Emhyr took over the north after Radovid’s death.”

“But no werewolf we know of steals grain,” Regis shook his head. Geralt looked at him and felt his expression soften in sympathy.

“We know it’s not a werewolf. Thought that’d please you,” he added. “Don’t ever remember you being particularly fond of them anyway.”

Regis smiled grimly at that.

“There are some things even I am afraid of,” he said softly, “and they are not just limited to werewolves.”

Geralt felt that he shouldn’t pry, but at the same time he wanted to know. What things in the world could possibly frighten a creature as old and powerful as the vampire he now stood beside? Regis saw the questioning gaze in his eyes and told him.

“Death, for starters. The thought of a death of someone very dear to me.” Those black eyes bored into Geralt’s own, and in that instant Geralt felt the breath being sucked from his very lungs.

“Don’t plan on dying any time soon,” he said quietly. Regis’ smile remained grim and tight-lipped.

“Thank you.” And that was all he said on the matter. He turned away. “Come. We must wait here until nightfall.”

 

*

 

The hours passed in relative silence, Geralt using the time to sit upon a nearby rock with whetstone in hand, sharpening his blades to gleaming, cruel points. Regis sat next to him, his eyes locked on the granary from the vantage point the pair had found in the clearing around the warehouse. They had hidden themselves under the cover of the trees and growing darkness, concealing themselves from the roaming eyes of whomever passed by. And hopefully away from the prying eyes of who – or what – it was that so often snuck into the clearing at night.

Ravens flew overhead every so often, giving the vampire updates on the situation in the village, as per Regis’ request. The ealdorman had returned and was partaking in his evening meal, and still no sight nor sound of any creature could be seen approaching the two lying in wait. It was now just after dusk’s final light, and the moon was slowly brightening in the darkened sky above.

Regis slipped his hand down, silently grasping onto Geralt’s own from where he had been leaning back on it against the rock. Geralt returned the gesture, brushing his thumb along Regis’ knuckles.

They didn’t have to wait very long after that.

Another hour and the sun had dropped completely from the horizon, the clearing now becoming illuminated in the silvery tendrils of the moon’s light. The birds had stopped their chirping, and all was silent – not even the song of crickets could be heard. Which was why they heard with crystal clarity the low howl that rippled through the forest behind them shortly afterwards – a lonely, sad wail that would have been enough to tear at the heart had it not been the call of a wild animal.

“Wolves,” Geralt muttered. That solved the riddle of the howling in the night, though it was a riddle which didn’t take much to solve in the first place. They had already known what the howling belonged to the moment the ealdorman had brought it up with them; the forest teemed with the canine hunters. Regis didn’t reply, for he quickly tightened his hand around the witcher’s own and urged him to look in the direction of the granary behind which a small figure could now be seen darting to and fro.

“Humanoid,” Regis observed, standing silently and narrowing his eyes. Geralt danced his fingers atop the hilt of his steel sword, sharing a quick glance with the vampire before the two stepped forwards, inching ever so closer. They didn’t step free of the clearing just yet, however. They wished to observe a moment longer.

It was good they did. Geralt wouldn’t have believed his own eyes otherwise.

The shadowy figure peered its head out from the back of the warehouse, as if checking the surroundings for anything. Then it stepped out, running quickly towards the front doors. Another turn of its head, another pause to see if anyone was coming, and the child, for that is exactly what it was, unclasped the lock and pulled the doors open with a heave and raced inside.

Geralt’s eyes widened and he shared a glance with Regis, the vampire looking just as perplexed as he. Geralt dropped his hand from the hilt of his sword, but still his fingers remained flexed and wary by his side. Regis walked forwards, the witcher following, with their steps silent as the grave. And then they waited by the doors for the young lad to come back out.

When he did he dropped the three large bags of grain he was holding and opened his mouth to scream. Regis quickly stopped him.

“Hush, we mean you no harm,” he said softly, lowering himself down to a knee to meet the boy’s eyes. The boy instead made to stifle his scream with the back of his hand, and after he’d whimpered away his shock he came to his senses and trembled. Geralt lowered himself down next to his friend, studying the boy carefully. He was dirty, covered with mud and dust. His thin form looked as if ready to snap in half at any minute, yet the strength in his arms was surprising if he was able to carry those sacks by himself. His eyes darted back and forth like a wild animal’s caught in a trap as he glanced first at the vampire, then at the witcher, then at the swords carried on Geralt’s back. He also saw how their eyes, one pair dark black and the other a slitted golden, reflected lightly in the night.

He whimpered again.

“It’s alright,” Regis consoled him again, holding both hands up in a placating gesture. “We’d just like to know what’s been happening here.”

“I’ve… I’ve done nothin’ wrong!” The lad squeaked.

“We’re not accusing you,” Geralt added, and then looked at the bags of grain. “The ealdorman know you’ve been the one taking his stuff?”

The boy stopped trembling and flushed in the face.

“It was ours to begin with!” He sniffed indignantly. “We been near dyin’ of hunger, we have! Ealdorman’d said to keep all the grain in the barn for the next winter, but that left us with naught but nothin’ _this_ winter!”

“Did he say why he wanted to keep the grain?” Regis asked. The boy sniffed again and shook his head, and then his mood deflated visibly in front of them.

“Dunno… but… we was talkin’ in the village we were an’… an’… we knew that we’d have to get it back. Me pop died last week. So did me friend’s nan. Millie, the blacksmith’s missus… she… she passed away a month back, moanin’ for a loaf o’ bread… an’ then there was Ollie an’ Thomil an’—”

“Shh, shh…” Geralt shook his head, telling the boy he needn’t go on. The lad’s eyes were watering. The witcher felt anger in his chest, tugging at his blood and pulling at his veins. The ealdorman needed a serious talking to. The witcher’s way.

“I been… I been the one going out at night to bring back some grain for the rest o’ us… last week it were Johann, but he got sick from the cold an’ he’s growin’ weaker by the day…”

“When did you start taking the grain?” Geralt frowned. The boy wiped his eyes with the back of his grubby hand.

“Three weeks past. Couldn’t stand it no more. Didn’t care ‘bout the Black Ones anymore, either.”

That made the two pause.

“What are the Nilfgaardians doing here?” The boy looked at Regis when the vampire spoke quietly.

“The whole village knows the ealdorman’d done some business with ‘em way back, when the war was on. He threatened us to keep quiet 'bout it, for all time. We overheard ‘em talkin’ three weeks back, same night we decided to start takin’ the grain…” the boy swallowed, hiccoughed, and continued in a stammering tone: “Somethin’ ‘bout sellin’ ‘em next winter’s supply o’ grain for the soldiers still out here so as to get coin an’ a place o’ honour in the capital. Ealdorman’d told Dennis tonight that he was plannin’ on heading down south for the next month day after tomorrow. Heard ‘em at dinner.”

Geralt and Regis stood.

“Think that’s our answer,” Geralt muttered, a growl rising in his throat. Regis nodded, his expression dark. He then turned to the lad who was whimpering again.

“You’re… you’re not gonna tell on me… are you?”

“No. Quite the opposite,” Regis answered, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder and looking into his eyes. “Take this grain back to the village, and quickly. We shall pay the ealdorman a visit and return to help you with the rest.”

The boy’s mouth flew agape and something like hope kindled suddenly in his watery eyes. Then he smiled.

“Thank you, sirs!” He nodded eagerly, leaning down to pick up the grain he had dropped earlier. “I will, don’t you worry! Thank you again!”

They watched as he raced off, quick feet flying over the mud and grass. Behind them in the forest they heard once more the lonely howl of a wolf. When Geralt turned around to make towards the village it was with murder in his eyes.

“I’m gonna kill that bastard.”

“Something that I too find to be a completely acceptable course of action in this dire situation,” Regis said alongside him, his steps level with Geralt’s own as they strode quickly down the hillside. His voice was cold, and Geralt turned to look at him out the corner of his eye for a moment, quite certain that he had never heard that tone before. Regis saw Geralt looking at him and blinked, turning his head to fix his black eyes on the witcher. He allowed a half smile to form on his lips, which were otherwise pressed tightly together in a thin line. “So many years we’ve known each other and yet I still surprise you?”

Geralt looked away and huffed.

“All the damn time.”

“I will consider that a compliment,” Regis answered, and the smile dropped quickly from his lips. They had entered the outskirts of the village; a light could be seen from the window of the house that belonged to the ealdorman. Smoke could be seen rising in billowing wisps from the chimney. Sparing another glance they gave no thought to courtesy and kicked open the door.

 

*

 

The ealdorman had just sat himself down at his desk, bowl in hand, when he heard the racket from the doorway.

“What the bloody fuck—” He didn’t get time to finish as he wheeled around and found himself face to face with two angry looking figures, the very ones he had given the contract to. He stood in confusion at the twin dark stares, eyes black and slitted gold both gazing at him with a look that churned the stomach and could have caused a grown man to sweat in terror. But not the ealdorman. He was made of sterner stuff. His lips curled and he rounded on them.

“And just what the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?! Barging in here, middle of the night – I gave you a contract to fill!”

“Contract’s taken care of,” the white haired man with the swords growled, stepping closer to the ealdorman. He didn’t budge, staring the witcher down. The pale grey haired man stood back, but his eyes were narrowed so intensely upon him that he almost did feel a chill run down his spine. Almost, but not quite. He was made of sterner stuff.

His hand twitched by his side.

“Then why the _fuck_ are you in—”

“Shut up and listen to me, because I’ve got something very interesting I wanna say,” the witcher silenced him and took one more step closer. Then another. The ealdorman felt the corner of the desk press against the back of his thigh. It was then he realised he’d been taking steps backwards. The grey haired man behind the witcher broke his gaze for a moment to walk towards the table, peering down at the bowl the ealdorman had placed down earlier. He seemed to have found whatever it was he was hoping to find by looking at it, because he straightened back up and gave a long, heavy sigh and then fixed him with such a look that the man felt his legs grow weak. He swallowed. Thickly. He would not be swayed. He was made of sterner—

“Did a little digging around town today, asked a couple of questions here and there… funny. People were all claiming the village was undergoing famine, but no one seemed to know the cause of it. Almost like they were too scared to,” Geralt began, enunciating his words slowly as if he was dealing with a child. “What’s also funny is how the grain in the warehouse was being left alone. How you apparently thought it’d be a good idea to store everything until next winter. Until three weeks ago, when it started to go missing.” Geralt paced in front of the ealdorman, sweeping his eyes briefly over to the bowl that Regis indicated, containing a hearty meal of hot porridge that the man had just been about to eat. He felt rage twist and tighten in his gut. _Bastard._

He could see the ealdorman start to inch away out the corner of his eyes. He held him in place with a sharp turn of his head.

“Werewolf story… pretty inspired, I have to admit. Went to great effort to make sure no one would come by and visit the town while you carried out your little deals. Because that’s how you got the word out, isn’t it? Telling your friends the next village over to go to everyone they knew and say that Riedbrune was haunted by a werewolf on the prowl.” Geralt’s eyes narrowed and his lip curled into a thin line. He’d pieced it all together on the way over from the granary. Hunger didn’t make people afraid. Stories did. The fear and anxiety of the villagers and the lack of visitors naturally followed suit.

“But you didn’t count on a witcher passing by. You panicked, knowing that you couldn’t get rid of us, not when you’d already placed a notice out knowing full well that it would be a damn miracle if anyone would come down to this part of the world just to see it. It'd give you more time to get your pay, run off down south because the fear of that curse would mean that no one, not your villagers or any other traveller would be able to stop you… but someone did notice. Someone trained to deal with all manner of monsters and curses – and let me tell you, something stunk from the very start…”

He looked the man square in the eyes, daring him to look away.  

“How much does Nilfgaard pay for grain these days?”

The ealdorman’s eyes bugged.

“What?!” He choked out. The grey haired man stepped forward.

“I would advise you to answer immediately,” he said quietly. “In as much detail as you can manage. Quickly, now.”

He could feel the heat from the fire behind him, his eagerness to get away having taken him well past his desk. He stood his ground. Tried to, anyway.

“I… I don’t know what the arse fucking shite is going on here! You come into my home, you accuse me of… of… collusion with the Black Ones and—”

“Wrong answer.”

The only warning the ealdorman received before the witcher moved was a flash of his golden eyes and a sweep of his gloved hand, and the next minute a tight pain wound around his chest, tearing through his throat as gurgling gasps spat forth from his lips. His eyes bulged against the grip the witcher had on his throat, and with a forceful shove he felt his bones rattle and the air flee his lungs with the impact of the wall roughly meeting his back. Coughing, gasping and trying feebly to claw at the hands wound around his neck he could feel the lack of oxygen burning through his lungs; his sight darkened and he saw stars.

“Met a lot of monsters in my time, but you’re on a whole new level. People like you make me sick,” Geralt hissed by his ear, voice low and dangerous and a fire in his eyes to match the glow of the fireplace behind them. In his scarred face the ealdorman saw the devil incarnate. A sour smell filled his nostrils, and he knew he’d pissed himself.

“Geralt,” Regis said warningly, and in the ealdorman’s darkened and dizzied vision he barely registered seeing the grey haired man place a hand on the witcher’s shoulder. The grip around the ealdorman’s throat loosened immediately and the man fell to the ground, choking, wheezing, and fighting the reflexive urge to vomit.

“Deal with him, Regis,” Geralt snapped. “I can’t anymore.”

Regis nodded, giving all manner of indication that he had fully intended to do so. He knelt down in front of the heaving and gasping ealdorman, and in the ealdorman’s watery eyes he saw dark eyes fixed on him, watching and gauging his every move. He felt trapped.

“We came across a few notes in your possession from the commander of the garrison in the next village,” Regis began softly. “A few very interesting notes I might add – ones that had already been read through – commending your services to the troops. I suggest you not act as if you have no idea what we are referring to.” He paused, ensuring he still held the man’s gaze before continuing: “You starved your own town for a bit of coin. Villagers greet death by the week. We met the young lad who so valiantly takes the grain from the warehouse to give the rest of the village back what they are owed, and he explained the situation in very heartbreaking terms.”

A long silence filled the house, broken only by the hoarse coughs from the man on the floor.

“Now listen carefully, as I have neither the time nor the patience to repeat myself. You will go to Nilfgaard—” Regis silenced the man with a single look when he had begun to open his mouth to splutter something in reply, “and you will stay there. You wished to go there after all, did you not?”

Another silence. This time the man whimpered and managed something akin to a shaky nod. Regis leant in closer and narrowed his eyes.

“You will stay there,” he repeated, “and if you return, we will know of it. We will know, and no one will be able to help you.” He stood, and this time his glare sharpened with something strange, foreign almost. It was a glare that Geralt had never seen before, carrying with it such an intense focus that even he found it hard to look away at first.  

The man let loose a wailing cry and his eyes then closed, the ealdorman falling completely silent. A moment passed and then they heard the distinct sound of snoring. Regis had put him to sleep when he had looked into those beady eyes for the last time. He stepped back and straightened his tunic, tightening his hand around the strap of his satchel. Geralt said nothing. He couldn’t. He was stunned. His heart thudded and his chest tightened, and he felt a stubborn dryness tear at his tongue. He wanted to kiss him, to have him against the wall whispering words of praise. That, sadly, would have to wait a while longer.

“Wow,” he breathed when the vampire turned around and sighed, Regis now looking weary beyond words, “never actually seen you do that before. Almost forgot about it, in fact.”

“I try not to if I can help it,” Regis murmured, stepping past the sleeping man and walking towards the direction of the door. “It takes a reasonable amount of exertion on my part to influence the brain in such a way. Forcing sleep is… even more uncomfortable now when I am still regenerating, regaining my full strength.” He turned, offering a weak smile at Geralt when he raised his hand towards the door. “Shall we depart? I very much wish to be done of this place.”

“Regis… you gonna be ok?” Geralt asked quietly, laying a hand on his lover’s shoulder when he drew up beside him. Regis nodded, his smile growing more sincere by the moment.

“I will be. Thank you, Geralt. Your concern is touching.” He held his eyes for another minute and then walked outside, the air cold after the warmth of the house they had entered. He cast a final glance back at the ealdorman inside before closing the door. “When he awakens he will mount the first horse he can find in the stables and flee until he reaches Nilfgaard. I posed no idle threats.”

“I could see that,” Geralt blinked, the mere memory of the threat in Regis’ words causing a chill to devour his spine, followed by a rush of excitement. The sensation was soon replaced with yet more worry, yet more concern. “Look, you don’t have to keep doing this is you don’t want to. If you feel like you’re not cut out for this lifestyle we can—”

“Geralt,” Regis’ tone was incredulous and he stared at the witcher as if he had suddenly gone mad, “what on earth are you insinuating? This is hardly my first time on the road with you. I know the risks, I know what must be done. I’ve killed before, you know – both humans and the lesser brethren of my own kind. Let us not also forget the course of events in Stygga Castle. I was always ready, still _am_ ready, to put my life on the line and to make sacrifices for something I believe in, especially for the _people_ I believe in. Yes, even if I must quell my more compassionate side and turn towards actions more bestial.”

He stopped walking, now standing in front of Geralt. He reached out, grasping his chin in gentle hands.

“Cast aside your doubts, my friend. I would readily follow you to the end of the world and back.”

He was serious, Geralt realised. He knew he was serious, but to see that conviction in his eyes, to feel how firm his hands were, no trace of a tremble in his hold… he nodded, unable to speak nor think. When firm lips met his own in a brief, tender kiss, he felt the blaze of something equal to a thousand suns burn once more within his chest, consuming, overwhelming him until he could think of nothing else, feel nothing else. He knew what the feeling was, felt it grow stronger every minute.

He grasped the shoulders of the vampire, bleeding everything he could into that kiss. Regis sighed against his lips and slowly pulled back, his lips moist and reddened. He then simply smiled, stroking a hand once more down Geralt’s cheek before turning back around, continuing down the path that led into the moonlit village.

“Now then, let us help with the remainder of the grain and leave this town. I think we’re done here.”

Geralt couldn’t agree more.


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

 

“Did you hear? Straight off to Nilfgaard!”

“Always was a great deal of trouble in that town. Told my boy, I said to him: ‘if you know what’s good for ye, you’ll avoid those parts.’ Ain’t very bright the lad but the gods granted ‘im with a good set o’ ears, at least.”

“Wasn’t even a curse! Some witchmen walked in an’ discovered he’d been cosyin’ up with the Black Ones! They saw right through that werewolf tale o’ his, gods bless the ground they walk on!”

Gossip such as this had spread quickly through the lower southern valleys, every villager from every town reminiscing about the infamous course of events that had occurred recently in the settlement of Riedbrune. Not even a day had passed after the two strange travellers had departed the town for the north when such gossip had then started to spread to the other corners of the provinces as fast as the bird flies. News had followed suit – the ealdorman had gone to Nilfgaard and adamantly pleaded for permanent lodgings, claiming the wrath of the devils were upon him. Folk treated him as a laughing stock and soon after he’d wound up in the Imperial prisons on charges of madness and disturbing the peace. His favour with the army had fallen out for his foolishness in letting himself be discovered, and no one came to his aid.

The town of Riedbrune itself slowly recovered, the villagers growing strong and healthy with full stomachs once again, and soon after trade routes re-established themselves with the settlement after the realisation that the werewolf had only been a farce and that no one had ever been in any danger. People passed through day and night, and the economy of the village swiftly rose, Riedbrune earning its place on the map once more.

The two figures seated at a tavern table together in the shelter of one such small village north of the Yaruga some three days after the event heard all this from the chattering folk around, the innkeeper himself being a prime source of information when asked about any goings on lately in the region. They listened attentively, asked few questions, and when they turned back to one another satisfied smiles echoed on each other’s lips.

Regis proposed a toast to a job well done, a contract successfully fulfilled, and Geralt chuckled heartily, unable to refuse the offer or his company. Their mugs clinked together and they drank their fill, and the very next day continued ever northwards on the Path.

 

*

 

Eight days into their journey saw the landscape drastically change. The jagged Gorgon and Amell mountain ranges fell away behind them, marking the encroaching border of the northern kingdom of Lyria and Rivia, and the rising stretch of the Mahakam mountains alongside as the Yaruga separated and swept east and westwards. What had once been grass as green as the rolling verdant hills so typical of Toussaint and the southern lands of Angren had slowly drained of colour and turned lighter in hue, indicating the change of a more temperate climate. The weather had become warmer, much warmer than it had the first stretch of their journey, and no rain had passed over the upper valleys for some few months.

The change in clime proved to be a relief for both travellers, their horses favouring the sun on their backs and raising their hooves with each step, trotting delightedly along the well-worn dusty roads that marked their way forwards. They thus made good time, needing only to stop sparingly on the road to rest or partake in rations, allow their horses a chance to cool down, or to find streams from which they refilled their water skins and refreshed themselves. They continued like this, the two of them, until the morn of the ninth day of their travels, when their journey had taken them off the northern pathways and made a turn towards the north-west.  

A towering fortress, crumbling, aged by time and war, rose along the horizon and blocked out everything else in sight. It demanded the attention and captivation of the eyes of those on the road, and served as a grim reminder of the many who had been imprisoned, tortured, and met other ill fates among those walls. Geralt turned his head and eyed the ruins of Scala carefully as they passed, falling into silent thoughts and memories of a time when he had last laid sight on them; he had made camp amongst the shelter of the stone for two nights and had gone east from here to the neighbouring ruin of Spalla, where he had fought with a territorial cockatrice and earned the scar that now donned his left brow and cheek. The beast had been fierce, and the pain that tore through his face from the sharp claws that had near taken away his sight was a pain which was not so easy to forget. Even now he felt the sting of old injuries tingle anew, and he tore his gaze away. It had been so very long ago.

He’d told Regis the story of course, and when he looked at his companion he saw the vampire casting a thoughtful glance at the ruins beside them.

“A pity that ruins as these should house the remnants of such cruelty.”

“Sympathising with blocks of stone now?” Geralt’s tone was dry, but he took comfort and gratitude in the conversation that had now been sparked. It made the next few miles bearable the further the distance they put between themselves and this place.

Regis chuckled lightly.

“No, Geralt. But perhaps I should. It brought a smile to your sombre visage and that in itself is an impressive feat given how morose you looked moments ago.”

Geralt laughed and pretended not to notice the look of satisfaction on Regis’ face.

“Can’t help it. Old scars and all that.”

“Hm. I must admit I _am_ curious – I know how you earned those scars, but just how exactly did you manage to take the cockatrice down in the end?”

Geralt sighed, narrowing his eyes in thought. He looked alongside at the fortress again while Regis waited patiently.

“With difficulty,” he answered presently. “Waited out here for two nights to try and track its movements before closing in on its lair. Didn’t even need bait. It lunged right at me the second it saw me close by.” He paused, shaking his head. “The speed of that monster… my sword’d been dropped to the ground before I’d even had a chance to react. It was because of that that I managed to get this scar on my face.” He ran a finger down the length of the cut, looking back at Regis who was watching him attentively.

“Straight from here to here. He swiped downwards trying to drop me and pick me up. Managed to cut him off at the last minute when I forced a Sign and used Aard to push him back – lunged for my sword and struck upwards when he was distracted and gutted him right through. Damn stroke of luck I’m telling you.”

There was concern in Regis’ dark eyes.

“So it would seem. I must say I for one am rather grateful that luck was on your side that day, Geralt.”

Geralt scoffed.

“So am I. Learnt a valuable lesson about cockatrices, then.” 

“And what would that be?”

The witcher grinned.

“Fighting them gives you even more of a reason to go get drunk after.”

Regis sighed, shaking his head in visible disdain at his lover’s flippant comment, but Geralt felt a smug pull in his chest at the smile that the vampire was clearly trying to keep from his lips regardless. He allowed a smile of his own, turning back to look at the road before them. In the distance, the faint outline of familiar thatched houses and red roofed towers was only just visible. His smile soon faded and his brows creased as a melancholy mood bestowed itself upon the witcher; that was another place he had not ventured to in some time, the city of Rivia stirring memories within his mind of a past that he would sooner rather forget.

He blinked once, and saw pitchforks and riots and the blood of innocents shed as his own eyes grew dark.

He blinked again and the memory cleared from his mind in an instant. Their horses trotted on, and the fortress of Scala fell back behind them. He felt the vampire’s eyes on him, could almost feel the concern and sudden bout of uncertainty in the weight of that gaze. Just like he had known how Geralt had received that souvenir from the cockatrice, Regis also knew of the tales of that fateful massacre in Rivia in the year 1268. The year that Geralt had died. He drew his mount closer to the witcher’s side.  

“Geralt, if you—”

“We’ll overnight in the city for a bit,” Geralt interrupted, turning to meet Regis. “Our horses need the rest – we could do with a fair bit, too.”

Regis looked uncertain, and in his eyes Geralt saw a wellspring of emotion, of doubt, that made his throat run dry and his chest ache, just as it always did. He reached out, unable to stop himself, and he traced his thumb over the vampire’s lower lip. A wordless plea, that was all it took, and Regis sighed against his hand and nodded. Geralt’s answering smile was sincere.

It had just passed midday when Rivia’s front gates opened to admit the two travellers inside the city.

 

*

 

Much had changed in the few years since he had last walked within its walls; the sights, sounds and smells of the city for which he had been dubbed now rose before him and surrounded him as something almost completely foreign. The guardsmen with their plate armour and shields draped in the red lozenges of the Rivian coat of arms marched to and fro, always in groups of four. No doubt after the pogroms and the slaughter of non-humans they had redoubled their efforts to patrol the city’s streets. This knowledge brought Geralt little peace, however. He’d seen what had happened in Novigrad when the armies had stepped in. They’d started burning people alive, then. Forcing his gaze away from the guards he followed the vampire, he and Regis guiding their horses to the stables from which the stable hands immediately started moving forwards to unsaddle their mounts and rub them down.

Being sure to take their belongings with them, they paid the lads for their services and stood a moment in the midst of the throng of people, their eyes taking in the hubbub and commotion they were greeted with.

Rivia was by no means as densely populated as the larger cities of the world such as Beauclair, Novigrad or Nilfgaard proper, but it still took some degree of effort on both their parts to adjust to the larger crowds and the flood of noises that far exceeded those of the smaller villages and towns they had passed through on their journey from Toussaint. The odorous stench of sweat and filth filled the nose, and the roar of traders in the nearby market district thrummed against the ears. Where once the city had been merely a town of thatch roofed cottages and houses nestled neatly before the banks of Loch Eskalott, now high towers rose and guarded the city at all four points of the compass, the walls built up from an impenetrable border of brick which carried all the way to the castle at the northernmost point of the lakeside. The shadow of the Craag Ros hills rose ominously to the west, baring down upon the township and its folk, and dust particles hung in the air, kicked up from the feet of the citizens rushing to and fro, darting about their daily business. The elderly coughed and choked, finding it hard to breathe through it all. The beggars by the gates were already on death’s bed.

Nearby a cat yowled and a dog barked in a rabid fashion. But above all, the one thing that drew their attention over the stench, the bustling crowds, the sounds of feral animals and the dying of the sick and the poor, was the realisation that not one non-human could be seen in amongst the crowd.

“A lovely city by all accounts,” Regis muttered, making no show of hiding his distaste. Geralt nodded, not needing any words to agree. As a witcher he maintained many times that his mutations prevented him from suffering any form of disquiet, but gazing now over the crowd, resisting the urge to choke on the foul rank of faeces and vomit and slowly beginning to understand the dire extent to which those pogroms had reached, not one non-human soul visible here before him… he felt his skin crawl. He felt his stomach lurch, as if he had been thrown through the tumultuous vortex of a portal. Hatred burned within him, a hatred soothed only by the comfort of the vampire beside him and the hand Regis had placed upon his back.

The witcher was silent as they strode forth, blending their way through the crowd which swallowed them up on all sides. He cast his eyes back and forth, ignoring Regis’ concern only for a moment in favour of trying his best to discern through the bustle of people any sight of an appropriate place of lodging. He’d made sure to glance towards the castle towers whilst doing so – a certain degree of relief being felt at seeing that the white and blue flags heralding Queen Meve’s presence in the city were not flying. One more close scrap or forced meeting with monarchs and he’d be quite content to jump into a portal and never exit again.

A herald stood upon a rickety looking box by the trade quarter, his black robes stained with dirt, shit, and all other ugly manner of filth. His blond beard was streaked with grey, and his voice was so heavily rasped that it was any wonder that those passing by could hear him. As it was Geralt only paid minimal attention to what he was saying, instead guiding Regis towards the brick walls of a tavern that he had been searching for the moment they had first started walking, and had now successfully found. The sign waved in the gentle breeze, creaking with each movement, and people could be seen passing in and out in a steady stream from the front doors of The Cock and Bull – one of the more reputable taverns the city housed.

“Hear ye! Hear ye! Good folk of Rivia! By order of The White Queen herself, Her Royal Highness Meve of Lyria and Rivia, let it be known that any and all who seek to conspire or co-conspire with the whoreson brigands led by the notorious Greyneck Gortag – who in acts of cowardice do see fit to readily terrorise the streets and peaceful citizens of the realm – will find themselves standing trial alongside the bandits, and will hang by the neck until dead tomorrow morn.”

The door to the inn was pulled open, the sound of laughter and song spilling onto the streets all but drowning out the cacophony of sound from the marketplace. Regis paused for long enough to spare a final glance back at the herald, who had now moved onto his next notice of rising city taxes, before turning his attention back to the witcher who held the door open for him.

“Taxes and bandits. The usual,” Geralt grunted, sounding weary when the door closed behind them and they carefully picked their way through the inn’s patrons.

“Do I detect a certain degree of disappointment in your tone?” Regis asked, smiling at Geralt and navigating his way lithely past two drunken workers who had doubtless been in here since their lunch break. Geralt chuckled tiredly.

“Disappointment? No. Hunger and a need to sleep? Definitely.”

“Then by all means let us endeavour to see to that immediately.”

Geralt flashed Regis a small smile, the lines of fatigue nestling under his eyes smoothing out ever so slightly to be replaced by a look of tender appreciation. Regis wondered if Geralt knew how much that expression suited him – when the hardness of those slitted eyes was soothed into something that left him open like a book begging to be read, and read by him alone. Almost like a silent plea, a beck and call to understand without words the maelstrom of thoughts, of feelings, of emotions that burned deep within this man – things that he could never say, at least not aloud. But with one single glance alone he could reveal them all, and to be the sole recipient of those thoughts, of those glances, to be the only one who could see deep within… Regis felt himself drawn ever more to this man, this witcher who held his adoration, his fascination and his love like no other. This man whom he would proudly walk into the very depths of the abyss beside, as he had before in Stygga Castle, and as he so readily would again if the past were to repeat itself and if the future demanded. Without a moment’s thought. Without the slightest hint of hesitation.

It took a great deal of control to remain calm by his side as Geralt called upon the innkeeper for a room key and a meal. A great strain to keep his faculties in check so as not to reach out, to touch, to kiss, to feel the warmth of his body against him and spill each and every praise that danced upon the tip of his tongue. But nothing he could say would be able to truly articulate the extent of his thoughts, the extent of his want and need. As if somehow sensing his thoughts, Geralt reached down beside him and slipped his fingers between Regis’ own.

The vampire smiled, felt an overwhelming calm surround him, and he tightened his hold.

 

*

 

“Have you given any thought to your plans after we reach Novigrad?”

The amount of patrons filling the tavern had lessened considerably over the past few hours, the lunch hour having finished soon after the pair had arrived. A few drunken louts remained in the chairs seated by the corners of the red painted walls, speaking with varying degrees of clarity and standing with equally varying degrees of balance. The innkeeper polished his glasses, the man short, grey haired and bespectacled.

Geralt took a sip of his beer, the local specialty known as a Rivian kriek, and savoured the taste of the alcohol on his tongue, strong and topped with layers of fine white froth. Then he looked back at Regis who was seated opposite him at their table, observing him quietly whilst helping himself to the soup they’d been given for their meal.

He offered a noncommittal grunt. Regis arched a brow, lowering his spoon back to his bowl.

“Dunno yet,” Geralt answered, swallowing another gulp of his beer and placing the half-empty mug back on the table. He downed a mouthful of soup himself and then followed it with a substantial chunk of bread. The bread was stale, but he’d made do with worse before. “Recall Lambert saying something about Lan Exeter once… he’d made a good bit of gold for a contract on a giant. Turned out to be a troll and some bandits, but the coin didn’t change,” he said in-between bites of his food. A thoughtful look entered his eyes. “Eskel mentioned they pay a lot for drowners there, too.”

“Kovir? My, you appear to be branching out a fair bit, my friend. I must say I’ve never ventured that far north,” Regis mused, smiling and leaning back to down the last of his own drink. He found it to be palatable for the most part, and the cherry notes of the beer carried with them a profound sweetness, but it was still missing the distinct depth he preferred from his own mandrake brew. When he placed the mug back down on the table he caught Geralt looking at him with amusement in his grizzled face.

“Find that hard to believe.”

“Contrary to your beliefs Geralt, I am somewhat of a homebody. Oh I may have walked the world for many years before being graced by the sheer pleasure of your presence, but I did not spend all that time discovering far-off lands. I found enjoyment in the simple things in life.”

“And keeping a low profile, too.”

“Quite.”

There was a silence, which was broken soon by the grins slowly spreading across each other’s lips and the resulting chuckles these ensued. Presently though, Regis grew sombre.

“Besides… I find more enjoyment in travelling the world alongside the perfect company.”

Geralt said nothing for a while, the witcher instead locking eyes with the vampire and holding his gaze for some time. It did not escape Regis’ notice how those sharp eyes of his softened, nor did it escape his hearing how his breath hitched ever so slightly within his chest. Presently Geralt cleared his throat and reached for his beer once more. Regis smiled again. Softly, this time. 

“Being on the Path isn’t bothering you?” Geralt asked after a moment, and Regis blinked. He was about to answer when Geralt cut him off. “I know what you told me back in Riedbrune, but I’m not asking about that. I mean the contracts. Really think you can keep doing them forever?”

Regis tapped a finger idly against the scratched wooden surface of their table as he considered that question, never once breaking his gaze as he once more stared into his lover’s eyes. He cleared his throat and shifted his posture, straightening up against the back of his chair.

“Forever is such a subjective term,” he began at length, “but I shall not bore you with the intricacies of how I would so dearly like to argue your choice of words. No, I shall answer you quite clearly this time.” He leant in. Geralt looked as if he was about to say something but he caught himself at the last minute, merely inclining his head in indication for Regis to continue. “Yes, I do.”

Geralt paused halfway between raising his mug to his lips.

“Really?” His tone was quite dry. Regis sighed.

“Geralt, as I’m sure you are very much aware, forever is but the blink of an eye to me. I daresay your usage of the word indicated a fair bit of exaggeration on your part, as well. I know as well as you do that though you may be a witcher, trained since boyhood to undertake the gruelling and gruesome tasks of eradicating monsters from the world the moment they turn rabid, that those few months in Toussaint gave you a tantalising glimpse into what the world _could_ be like for you once you’ve finished on the Path and have nothing left to kill.” He sighed again.

“You said so yourself. You had grown attached to the land, the people. It gave you a sense of familiarity, a sense of home for someone who cannot be said to have previously had one. So your definition of the word forever is… what? Ten years? Twenty? Thirty? However long it takes you to find something that even closely resembles what you once had? Hardly an infinite time frame. Therefore that is why I answered as such.”

Those cat eyes closed for a moment and Geralt fell silent, running the vampire’s words over in his head. It made sense. Of course it did. He couldn’t deny the truth in it, either – he remembered having admitted as much to Regis the night in Corvo Bianco when, fuelled by the fatigue of the day and the frustration of his resulting banishment, he had broken down the walls of indifference he had so carefully built up and had spilt his heart to the man before him. The tantalising glimpse into what his life could have been… he felt a dull ache in his chest, felt it centre itself deep in his gut soon after.

_Damn it._

He really was getting old.

“And you’re still prepared to stay with me no matter how long it takes for the contracts to end, is that it?” He smiled thinly. Regis blinked again, and the gaze with which he fixed Geralt was one that was almost harsh in its brutal sincerity.

“I’m prepared to do a lot more.”

He exhaled slowly, Geralt draining off the last of his ale and shaking his head.

“You’re crazy,” he muttered, though not unkindly. Regis merely inclined his head, remaining silent but visibly amused by the comment nevertheless. Somewhere behind them the drunken men in the corner roared triumphantly, raising their glasses in a sloppy toast and all but stumbling over one another as their game of gwent drew to a close. The doors opened and closed, admitting more people inside, including an older woman and a younger child who wrinkled their noses in disgust at the scene. The innkeeper found himself busy once again with orders for more food and drink from a couple standing at the bar, and outside the tavern the sun continued to blaze brightly in the cloudless sky.

“I have been called worse things. But, truly Geralt, the life of a witcher is one that I find most fascinating.”

The comment took Geralt by surprise, and he turned his attention back to Regis after having spent a minute or two watching the drunken gwent game commence anew.

“How? This is what I don’t get about you, Regis. I’d have thought if anyone would have an issue with it, it’d be you.” Geralt crossed his arms over the table. “For obvious reasons.”

“Why? Because of what I am?” Regis asked him, voice gentle as he titled his head to the side in a show of curiosity, his expression thoughtful. “Or because the nature of the work sometimes results in no other option but to put an innocent’s life on the line?”

Geralt nodded, indicating both were very valid concerns. Regis hummed, smiling thinly.

“Allow me to explain to you then what it is that draws me so. It allows me to study, to learn. I find the mystery, the intrigue of humans and their ways and the fears that keep them up at night to incite all the more reason to determine just what can be done to alleviate them. The monsters that you speak of are those that are senseless, vengeful beings with only a thought for food and territorial instinct on their minds. They should rightly be culled." Another pause, and then he continued: "A witcher, by the very definition, is someone bearing an understanding of both worlds, co-existing on both sides of the spectrum at once. You are neither completely human, yet nor are you completely monstrous. But you have _knowledge_ , and _that_ , my dear Geralt, is a gift that saves countless lives. You strike the monsters down whose actions are base, and you spare those with thoughts, emotions and lives as enriched as a human’s own. You break curses and free the spirits of those who have been chained to this world, and you do it all fully knowing that you will only ever be shunned by those who fail to understand the noble sacrifices you make; the human response, and your strong sense of justice. That is what fascinates me.”

“Just that?”

Regis reached for his hand, gazing long into his eyes. His eyes softened.

“Not quite. There is also the peculiar matter of the man I am describing. I have always maintained that I have been hopelessly drawn to him from the very start.”

Geralt chuckled faintly, and in his eyes Regis once again saw that appreciation, that unguarded gaze that opened him up and allowed the vampire to become lost in the torrent of emotion he saw kept deep within. His hold tightened on Geralt’s hand.

“Besides, when I think back to our adventures in Riedbrune, I must take a moment to congratulate our endeavours. I do believe we handled the situation impeccably. Vampire and witcher, working together to eradicate a most foul beast that ravaged the town – a true tale to be told for the ages, wouldn’t you agree?” He grinned, being careful to not show the entirety of his fangs given that they were not alone. Geralt laughed.

“You’ve spent too much time around Dandelion,” the witcher shook his head, running a palm across his face to both convey his exasperation and hide his pending smile somewhat.

“Not necessarily. I merely think it a wondrous experience that should be savoured, reflected upon with the utmost pride. There are not many other witchers or vampires out there who can say the same, after all.” Regis tore off a small hunk of bread from the nearby plate, chewing thoughtfully. “No… not many at all.”

The sombre tone his words had taken was not lost on Geralt, who was listening with rapt attention. Regis was right. Just how many others _could_ say the same?

“Together, we have achieved something that has marked a milestone for the members of our respective species. We helped a starving village by discovering how and why their grain storage had been tampered with. We uncovered the plot that resorted in the ealdorman betraying his own people for a sackful of coin, and ensured that he would flee to the land that we recently discovered has rightly punished him. We have _saved_ people, Geralt. An entire town, no less. Nothing gives me greater joy than that. Indeed, I would be lying if I said that I did not feel a great deal of pride at having helped contribute to such a worthy cause. A most cathartic experience of which I have never been more certain about my choice to accompany you.”

Geralt smiled.

“You have a point, I’ll give you that,” he mused. “We did work pretty well together back there.”

“There, you see? I knew you’d see things my way – albeit in the end and after much initial persuasion.”

“Didn’t take much convincing, believe me.”

“I beg to differ.”

Geralt scoffed, unable to push himself to consider arguing with the vampire further, light-hearted though it was. Another moment of silence passed between the two, in which they used the opportunity provided to gaze once more at the tavern around them, watching with idle fascination the attempts the drunken cohort made to leave without slipping over and vomiting on their shoes, and of the highly distasteful looks the more distinguished and sober of the patrons offered in their direction. Outside the sound of the crowd gathered in the market square could only just be heard rising to an excited roar, the herald no doubt having found his voice properly at long last and using it to incite the crowd with more daily notices. Someone rushed inside, panting fitfully and making a mad sprawl towards the counter and demanding a jug of ale from the disgruntled innkeeper.  

“Could go for another round,” Geralt said when he’d turned back to face Regis, lifting up his empty mug and shaking it pointedly. Regis’ lips curled upwards into a smile and he looked at his own mug, as if contemplating whether to take his lover up on that offer. He nodded.

“I think that would be most agreeable.”

A large grin and Geralt rose from his seat, about to track the innkeep down when he was near bowled over by the very man who had just rushed in. Regis stood up in an instant, standing by Geralt’s side immediately as the witcher found himself wearing half of the man’s ale. But that was not what had made them tense, stand alert. It was not what made both witcher and vampire freeze where they stood.

The man, who looked no more than thirty, had dark hazel eyes blown wide with fear. He gripped the front of Geralt’s cloak, his voice high and crazed with frenzy as he cried out nonsensically. The rest of the patrons drew silent immediately and closed in to view the spectacle, but remained cautious enough to keep as much of a distance as they dared.

“S-sir! I-I saw the swords on your back… you… are you a w-witcher?”

Geralt reached down, carefully pulling the man’s hands from his cloak which had tightened in a death grip. Regis moved silently, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder and carefully helping him sit down on one of the seats they had just vacated. The man was shivering, trembling as if he had been doused in cold.

“Yeah. What’s wrong?” Geralt asked cautiously, all thoughts of grabbing a second round of drinks now completely gone in favour of a newfound flood of dull, stabbing wariness. Something had happened… something big…

That was when he remembered the sudden roar of the crowd outside mere seconds before this man flew into the tavern. It wasn’t hard to then put two and two together. Judging by Regis’ straightened posture and narrowed eyes, he was not the only one to have reached the same conclusion.

“I… I don’t r-rightly know s-sir,” the man stammered, panting heavily in-between each flood of words, “one minute I was walkin’ down th-the trade quarter and the n-next I h-heard a god-awful yell—”

“Here,” Regis interrupted, passing the man a fresh mug of ale the innkeeper had quickly brought over when the vampire had gestured for him to do so a moment earlier. “Drink this to steady your nerves and then recount to us as much as you are able. Take your time.”

“Oh thank ye, sir,” the man sighed, lifting the mug in both shaking hands and downing the entire lot in three impressive gulps. He closed his eyes, sucked air through his teeth, and then bowed his head as he groaned and shuddered. The crowd had closed in further. “Oh it was awful, it was…”

“What happened?” Geralt asked again.

The man shook his head once more and wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. When he looked up at the witcher his eyes were watery.

“Heard the dogs barking first… thought nothing of it, they’re all feral round here… but then I smelt it… oh gods, the _smell_ …” He swallowed thickly. “And then… then the sounds started. Like… like a man being… being _tortured_ so horrifyin’ the cries were… looked into an alleyway by the market stalls an’… an’ I saw… _blood_ …”

Geralt shared a look with Regis, the two falling utterly silent. A couple behind the man in the chair gasped and gripped onto each other in terror. A mother cupped her daughter’s ears and steered her away.

“Was he killed?” Geralt asked slowly. The man didn’t answer for a long while.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what happened to him in the end… I smelt the stench of death around me… like it was following me… I ran… ran for me life… right into the guard an’ explained everythin’ an’ they said they’d seen a witcher walk through the city gates earlier on… I came here right away hopin’ I’d find ‘im… it’s where your kind usually go first when they enter the city.”

Geralt nodded, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Did you notice anything strange? Any other odd sounds? Something out of the ordinary?”

The man looked as if he was about to answer, but then paused, apparently having lost the use of his tongue. Then he nodded.

“A low… growling… unnatural like… somethin’ deep, gurgling… never heard its kind before in me life…” He trailed off, mouth quivering. Geralt considered his words a moment. _Interesting._

“Did the guardsmen investigate the scene of the crime after you informed them?” Regis inquired quietly. The man looked at him and nodded.

“Y-yes, sir… they should still be th-there…”

“Shit,” Geralt muttered under his breath. In his experience, he and those who had been tasked with cleaning up the mess at the sight of such crimes had never seen eye to eye. He hated it, in fact - the constant questions, these men who believed that they had more experience of such matters simply because they bore the crest of the monarch and he did not. And they always, without fail, made a mess of the scene. Many a time had there been when Geralt was forced to abandon a contract within a city, purely because the guardsmen – in their noble endeavours – had trampled upon all the evidence until there was naught left that he could go on.

If Geralt had felt his mood sour when that man had gripped onto his cloak and had started screaming nonsense, it was nothing compared to the ire he was feeling now. Regis must have sensed this in some way, for he placed his hand on Geralt’s shoulder, squeezed gently, and gazed right into the frightened man’s eyes.

“Thank you for bringing this to our attention. We shall see if we can uncover exactly what it is that has happened here.”

The man looked near ready to faint with relief. The crowd gasped, gazed in admiration and parted back, the spectacle now over as the man sobbed into his mug of finished ale. Geralt turned to Regis, about to question the readiness by which the vampire had taken it upon himself to accept whatever _this_ was on both their behalf, but a single meaningful glance on Regis’ part silenced him.

“Not now, Geralt,” he whispered urgently, guiding the witcher to the door. “Someone has been murdered.”

They left, running into the milling crowd with no time to waste.

 

*

 

The trade quarter itself was a relatively small district, the laneways between shops and stalls too small in fact for the hundred or so people who passed through it daily. It was near impossible to do so now, and Geralt and Regis would not have made it through as quickly as they had if it weren’t for two guardsmen who had begun to forcefully shove the herd of townsfolk back away from the alleys.

In this regard, Geralt was thankful for the authorities. But only in this regard. They stepped silently past the rows of whimpering and shaking citizens, people trying their hardest to peek over shoulders and above heads, prick up their eyes and ears to determine what the sudden commotion was all about. A pikeman baring a guisarme, using the pronged tip to block off the way to the shadowed alleyway behind him looked up when he saw the two advance. He started, gripped his hands tightly around his weapon and was just in the middle of swinging it around to push them back when he saw the two swords Geralt bore. Understanding and recognition dawned on his pockmarked face. He nudged the guardsman beside him and they stood aside to let them pass.

“Captain said a witcher had entered the front gate,” the pockmarked man explained when he saw the briefly questioning glances thrown his way by the witcher and vampire. “Didn’t know it was Geralt of Rivia himself.” He sneered, showing his impressively full array of stained yellow teeth. “Queen Meve isn’t happy with you.”

“Queen Meve isn’t here right now,” Geralt replied, levelling the man down with a cold glare, “but it’s clear you want our help. Let us through.”

The guards shifted, lowering their guisarmes but quickly raising them to block the way after Geralt had passed them, Regis attempting to follow. Regis blinked, staring at the guards who were now cutting him off.

“The witcher only. Everyone else keep back.”

Regis was about to open his mouth to interject when Geralt beat him to it, rounding on the two with such suddenness that even Regis almost missed it.

“He’s with me.”

The guardsmen faltered, staring from one to the other. Regis calmly looked on, his eyes locked solely on Geralt in that moment. He fought the smile that threatened to creep upon his lips. He cleared his throat.

“I am indeed. I am somewhat of an expert with the unnatural, and I am accompanying the witcher on his investigation. I would very much appreciate it if you let me pass, good gentlemen.”

Another moment of hesitation, but soon the guards acquiesced – helped in part by the steady narrowing of Geralt’s eyes as he took a warning step closer to the two men. They stood back, allowing Regis through. The vampire nodded to both of them and fell into step beside Geralt.

“What happened here?” Geralt asked the group of soldiers waiting for them at the end of the alleyway. There were three of them in total, crowded around something that they had just covered with a loose fitting sheet. They looked up, shared a glance, and stepped back to allow the witcher and vampire through. With a gesture from Regis two of the soldiers pulled back the cloth.

“Man’s been murdered, nothing new in this city,” the oldest of the men began and hawked, noisily spitting out phlegm onto the ground beside him. “Wouldn’t’ve bothered sending for a witcher if the chap who found the stiff weren’t going on about strange noises and the like.” He fixed Geralt with a cold stare, his grey moustache even almost appearing to bristle with contempt. “I’m the captain here. No funny business.”

Geralt ignored him, nodding absently and watching as Regis carefully knelt down beside the corpse, gently pulling the cloth further back to check for any defining injuries.

“Did the gentleman who alerted you to this crime provide any further detail as to the types of noises he had heard?” Regis asked, running his dark eyes over the sharp cuts made to the man’s neck, the skin lacerated and bleeding profusely. The white sheet had been splattered with crimson red splotches. Geralt continued to watch him, unable to stop himself from taking half a step forward. He trusted Regis, trusted him with his life, but given what had happened in Tesham Mutna, given the vampire’s history with the temptations of bloodlust and addiction… he found himself momentarily uncertain. It was an uncomfortable sensation, one he was not used to experiencing.

Regis silenced his doubts with a single sharp look – one that clearly said that he knew what he was doing. Geralt exhaled slowly.

“Nah. Something growling or the like… could’ve been a dog. We said to him, ‘just a man what’s been stabbed or mauled by a stray – go back home and the city guard will take care of the rest.’ He shook his head and said he was convinced it was the work of the devil. Something unnatural,” the moustachioed captain continued, clearly having not noticed the exchange before him.

“So you naturally thought it fitting to send for the witcher whom you had heard had recently entered the city. I applaud your initiative, gentlemen, because your thoughts were rightfully occupied with more pressing matters, clearly,” Regis mused, his tone light yet thinly veiling his disgust. Geralt felt a smirk tug at his mouth.

The captain blinked, apparently not catching the sarcasm behind those words.

“Too right,” he replied, puffing up proudly as if he had just been awarded merit by the queen herself. “We’ve our hands full as it is with all the clean-up from the war up north. Haven’t got any time to run around after criminals.”

“It shows,” Regis muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.” The vampire smiled, standing and looking at Geralt, the two sharing a barely perceptible nod. He then looked back at the captain. “We shall conduct the investigation forthwith and return to you with our findings. It would perhaps be best if you return to your duties in the meantime, gentlemen.”

Surprise flittered across the man’s face, and he turned to face his comrades – of which the two could be seen shrugging and moving away from the body on the ground.

“Right you are then, sirs. If you need anything at all, don’t fail to call on us,” the captain cleared his throat, striding forth with the two others in tow. As Geralt and Regis stood there, they watched as the pikemen standing guard by the alleyway entrance were barked orders to leave them to investigate in peace, and to answer any pending questions they may have. Then they left, leaving the witcher and vampire alone in the shadows.

A moment passed, and then Geralt turned to his lover, unable to fully hide his grin.

“Nice.”

“A trifle. One must simply find a weakness and exploit it,” Regis chuckled, pulling the rest of the cloth away from the body and casting it aside on the ground. “Clearly Her Highness must better inspect the quality of her guardsmen.” He took a step back, taking in the scene of the carnage before him. “Now, let us see the proper extent of the damage.”

Geralt crouched down, his nostrils flaring against the stench of blood and decay. The body was of a man who had been no later than his mid-twenties, his blond hair caked in coagulated blood gone almost black. The wound on his neck was much easier to observe given that the canvas had been completely moved, and extended down his chest in thin, equally spaced out cuts that had torn open his shirt. Like something had sliced at him with abandon.

His eyes were rolled up into his head, his mouth open in a silent scream of horror, blood trickling from the corners of his pale lips. Further splatters of blood painted the brick wall behind him, marking where he had first fallen.

“Pretty gruesome injuries,” Geralt observed, tracing the tips of his fingers against the flesh where it had been torn. Regis knelt down again next to him.

“Hm, yes. See here, the way the blood has dried – the wounds on his chest were the first made. Something lunged at him from the front.” He traced a sharp nailed finger further upwards, indicating the slice across the man’s neck. “This wound is fresh. It’s still bleeding.”

“Which means it was made recently and was likely the cause of his death,” Geralt surmised, casting another wary glance at the vampire beside him. Regis’ face was turned, his eyes focused intently upon the wounds he was inspecting. He sighed, and a moment later closed his eyes.

“Geralt, I assure you I’m fine,” he said at length, when he couldn’t take it any longer. He looked at him. “Your concern is touching, really, but I’m afraid it’s completely unnecessary. I have dealt with far worse injuries and greater blood loss before in my life.” He forced a smile. “I am not affected.”

Geralt shook his head.

“Can’t help it. You’re still recovering, and after Tesham Mutna—”   

“Make no mention of that place again,” Regis whispered, and in his eyes was such a dire look of pleading that Geralt felt his stomach lurch uncomfortably. Regis’ expression quickly softened, and he touched a finger to the bottom of Geralt’s chin, tilting Geralt’s head up so that their eyes were level. “I _assure_ you… I am fine.”

Geralt watched him carefully a moment, eventually conceding with a curt nod and a pointed attempt to try to refocus on the corpse before them. He cursed his mutations for not fully eradicating that incessantly annoying ability to feel concern. Regis had turned his attention back to the body, seemingly oblivious to Geralt’s silent struggle. Or if he noticed, as was more than likely, he chose not to comment.

“This cut was made with a blade,” he continued, hovering a finger over the length of the slice across the corpse’s neck. “The thinness of it would indicate a sharp weapon of some description; the slice is long, jagged in some areas, and was made deeply. That rules out the likes of a scalpel or any degree of medical precision the murderer implemented.”

“Didn’t get it through properly the first try,” Geralt continued, looking at the jagged lines around the Adam’s apple that Regis had previously indicated, “struck too quick and had to correct the stroke, then continued.”

“A quick death and a brutal one; the man died choking on his own blood,” Regis added solemnly, looking now at the rivulets of crimson coursing from those pale lips. “These marks, however…” he pointed down towards the lacerations on the corpse’s chest. “Claw marks.”

“Shallow, not enough to bleed him out,” Geralt muttered, tracing the cuts once again. He frowned. “Spaced three inches apart and struck out quickly with the intentions of bringing him down; typical of a necrophage. Strange. Necrophages don’t usually go for fresh meat. Must’ve wandered into their lair. Explains the stench wafting off him.”

“Now why on earth would he do that?” Regis mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“I’ve seen it happen before – some people just don’t know the difference between a normal cave and one that’s inhabited by monsters until it’s too late,” Geralt sighed. “We’ll have to ask around the garrison, learn if there’s a necrophage den somewhere nearby.”

Regis nodded.

“One question answered, and another one raised.” He indicated the corpse when Geralt arched a brow in confusion. “Can you smell that? And I don't mean the repulsive smell of a necrophage's carrion. His blood is unhealthy, carrying a great deal of toxins within it and reeks of a chemical compound I am having difficulty placing.”

Geralt leant in and sniffed. Though his senses were sharp and indeed heightened well beyond that of a normal human’s, they were nowhere near as well attuned as that of the vampire’s. What took Regis the blink of an eye took the witcher a good few minutes and a great deal of concentration, but eventually he caught a whiff of it; something metallic, something sharp, something so unlike the stench of normal human blood. Something he’d identify with alembics and a laboratory.

“Smells like… the fumes fresh off a poison.” He blinked and leant back. Regis nodded again, his expression once more sombre.

“Indeed… but what kind of poison?” He tapped his chin again in idle thought, black eyes narrowed almost into slits. “Oh, to have the aid of a laboratory right now, some tomes perhaps…”

“We can check with the local herbalist, see if they can help us out,” Geralt suggested.

“I think that is one of the only courses of action available to us for now. But… wait a moment…” Regis paused, sniffing. Then he frowned, his brows furrowing deeply. “Dragonsroot. Unmistakable. I’d recognise that acrid aroma anywhere.”

Geralt’s eyes widened.

“Dragonsroot? You sure?”

Regis arched a brow.

“You’re not the only one to delve into the alchemical arts on occasion, my friend,” he replied. “Dragonsroot. Incredibly rare specimen I know, but nevertheless its scent is overpoweringly present within the man’s blood.” He too leant back, turning to face the witcher fully. “When the root has been powdered, the plant is quite toxic both to animals and humans alike, and, in severe cases, can induce internal haemorrhaging and act as something more akin to a narcotic, given its base hallucinogenic properties.”

“I’d encountered a man in Velen once… a sage. Needed some dragonsroot for his prophesying,” Geralt began slowly. “Thought he’d nearly die on me. It sapped the energy from him completely.”

“Hm, yes, the plant is very volatile when mixed with other reagents,” Regis noted, glancing at the corpse once more. “If it’s the key component within the poison used, that would explain the unearthly gurgling and howling as if someone was being ‘tortured’ that the townsman described to us in the tavern. It might very well be possible that such a poison caused great mental instability within this lad shortly before he died… paranoia, induced schizophrenia, perhaps. It would also account for the rather chilling expression upon his face.” He stood up.

“Poor bastard,” Geralt muttered, standing himself and glancing around the narrow alley. “No sign of the weapon that killed him, and judging by the smell I’d say he was poisoned just before his neck was sliced. Forced to drink it, maybe?”

Regis paced back and forth, his expression considerate, collected.

“That is quite probable,” he answered, “and would answer a few pending questions. Perhaps it’s why he saw fit to run into a necrophage den?”

Geralt frowned.

“Won’t find out this way,” he said, and upon Regis’ questioning glance he pointed to the imprints he’d located in the ground before their feet. It was difficult to notice at first, given how light the marks were, but upon closer inspection the thin trail of blood that was separate from the splattered fresh blood of the neck wound became more visible to the eye. “Clear tracks, but there’s too many people out there, too much foot traffic. We won’t be able to get a decent lead on these,” the witcher muttered, glancing over his shoulder. 

“Hm, yes. Most irritating,” Regis agreed. “We should consult with the guards first, at least.”

“Why?”

“They do have a right to know why this man was killed, and by what means,” the vampire reminded him gently. A smirk then pulled at the corner of his mouth. “And it would give us further time to investigate on our own terms once they’re busy with the body.”

Geralt chuckled.

“Can’t argue with that.”

“I knew you’d see it my way.”

“Been doing a lot of that lately, I’ve noticed.”

Regis’ smile was wide, and Geralt shook his head, a quick snort of amusement rising in his throat. The sheet was draped back over the body after a final quick inspection to ensure that neither had left anything amiss, and they returned to the guardsmen waiting for them. The bustle of the crowd outside had thankfully died down when they approached; it would seem that some form of law and order had been imposed as the pair had been busy investigating the corpse. The soldiers didn’t notice them at first when they stopped behind them, and it wasn’t until Geralt coughed impatiently that they started and quickly turned around.

“Finished with the body,” he said, pointedly gazing at the soldier on his right who had span around so quickly that he’d knocked himself in the head with his guisarme, and had resorted to cussing fitfully.

“And? The captain said you was to ask any questions,” the other one straightened up, kicking his friend in the shin.

“There are two that come to mind,” Regis began, smiling pleasantly at them both. “Where would the nearest alchemist be in this city?”

“Uh…” The soldier who’d knocked himself rubbed his helmeted head and looked around. “Got the one. Man calls himself Steffick. Barmy old coot – came here shortly after them massacres and set up shop in the old non-human district.”

“Is he well acquainted with poisons, by any chance?”

Both soldiers widened their eyes.

“Poison?” The second guard said, staring over their shoulders at the body in the alleyway. “Blimey – he was poisoned?!”

“We have significant reason to suspect so, yes,” Regis confirmed. “Answer the question, please.”

“Er…” the first guard shifted on the spot, as if jarred back into thought. “Don’t rightly know, sir. You’ll have to ask him.”

“We’ll do that,” Geralt interrupted, drawing their attention on him. “Know of any necrophage dens around here? Any contracts posted lately?”

The guards looked at each other, their eyes narrowing.

“Thought you were investigating the murder,” the second one said, squinting suspiciously at the witcher.

“We are. Could be connected. He had claw marks on his chest, looked like a necrophage’s,” Geralt replied, crossing his arms. The guards shared another uncertain look, though considerably less uncertain than they had both been a moment ago.

“Well… in that case… never heard of any necrofijees around here, but a while back Queen Meve had told the guard to block in a hole by the lakeside ‘cos some drowndings had been coming out and upturning boats and the people in ‘em,” the second guard said slowly, scratching his chin idly with his gauntleted fingers.

“Drowners…” Geralt turned to Regis, the two sharing an equal look of uncertainty. “Not the right type of claws. These were sharper.” He turned back to the soldiers. “We’ll check it out anyway, see if any other monsters have moved in.”

“Right you are, sirs,” the guards replied, straightening against the walls when the two walked past them. “Captain’s in the western garrison by the gates should you be seeing him. We’ll get the rest of the boys to come down and take the stiff over to the morgue.”

“Do that,” Geralt replied, not sparing them a glance. He looked at Regis again, who drew level next to him. “We’ll start at the lakeside.”

 

*

   

The Craag Ros hills and the summits of the Mahakam mountain range reflected perfectly in the crystal clear water of Loch Eskalott, the lack of wind causing nary a ripple to ruin the illusion. Trees dipped their boughs low to the water’s surface, never quite touching, and in the far depths of the blue hued waters a lone fish arched free from the water, submerging once again with a small splash.

It was almost peaceful, Geralt thought to himself as they walked free from the mayhem of the streets and crowds within the city centre, the brick walls raised around the thatched houses effectively cutting off all noise from within the busy hub of life. Almost peaceful, but such tranquillity did nothing to purely eradicate the painful flood of memories of a time when houses lined the lakeside and smoke billowed from the rooftops, the entire city set ablaze in the murderous flames of hatred and racial tension.

Even now, no one had dared to touch the ashen ruins of what was once the district of Elm – the home of the dwarves and elves who had perished here. The small cluster of what remained of the houses by the lake’s edge had been separated far from the rebuilt city, the raised brick fortifications a border that still remained even after their residents’ death. A lone hut remained standing, completely untouched by the same fate that had befallen the cottages around, and Geralt surmised that this was the lodging of the herbalist the guard had mentioned. A fitting location really, for the hatred of all that was different and shunned by society even extended to those who practiced with herbs and potions instead of swords and axes.

But that was not his current concern, as he and the vampire beside him searched for any sign of a necrophage’s lair by the lakeside. The ground before them had given way to a soft sandy soil, so different from the cobbled streets and laneways that Rivia now possessed. The fresh air brought with it the smell of the plants and reeds dotting the watery banks. And it was quiet. Too quiet.

“A shame we could not have been here under different circumstances, and at a different time,” Regis mused thoughtfully, breaking that silence that had steadily been weighing down around them like an asphyxiating shroud. “It would almost be beautiful to look at, then.”

Geralt looked at him, studying Regis’ profile and considering his words a moment. He chuckled faintly.

“Never took you for a romantic.”

“I am many things, Geralt,” Regis answered lightly, his hands slipping into the folds of his cloak as he drew it tighter around himself. “Would it be so hard to believe that my thoughts can also stray towards the romantic?”

“Ask me that question a few years ago and I’d have had a completely different answer for you,” the witcher smiled. Regis laughed, the sound of it enough to lighten Geralt’s darkened mood considerably.

“Then I take comfort in feeling confident as to what your answer would be now.”   

They stopped near the water’s edge, all further conversation halted for the moment when they took in the calmness of the lake. Geralt studied the surface of the water a moment longer, waiting to see if it would be disturbed by anything other than fish. Satisfied that it hadn't, he strode further down the bank. 

“A witcher at work,” Regis chuckled as he watched. “I shall stay back I think, and observe the professional.”

“Polite way of saying you can’t be bothered, you mean?” Geralt called back, kneeling down to run his hands over the imprints in the sand before his feet. Wideset prints, sharpened toes… typical ghoul prints.

_Ghouls moved in. Guards probably drove the drowners out._

He looked back at the ground, following the ghoul tracks a step further before stopping again. He saw a human’s tracks alongside, wearing shoes. He frowned, having then noticed another pair of human tracks nearby. _Two of them?_ He lifted his head, narrowing his eyes in on what looked to be a clump of tree branches cluttered by the bank ahead of him. That was when he saw it nearby, splattered alongside a rock in the sand. Saw it and smelt it. Blood. He smiled.

_On the right track._

“Not at all. As I told you earlier, I find the life of a witcher to be absolutely fascinating,” Regis chuckled again, walking alongside Geralt now and silently observing the witcher as he stood, nodding to the clump of branches.

“Necrophages have their den in there,” he announced. “Ghouls. Their tracks lead this way. The blood trail joins on and follows. And that stench… stinks like shit.” Geralt grimaced, having caught a whiff of the smell of rotting flesh emanating from behind the cave the branches were covering. “If the guards just shoved a tree down in front of the den, no wonder the necrophages’re coming back.” He pushed the branches away, Regis helping him.

When they stepped back a moment later, they gazed into the gaping black hole that had been crudely dug out into the hillside. The rancid reek was strong, so strong that Geralt almost covered his nose with his hand. Regis took another careful step back.

“Two human tracks here, one of them belonging to the man who was murdered,” Geralt summarised, pointing at the indents in the mossy earth by the cave opening. It was just wide enough for a human to enter without any prominent difficulty, provided they bent over. The imprints in the soil proved that both had done just that. “Probably a friend. They were alone – the ghoul tracks’re old.”

“I fear we've arrived too late. The cave is empty,” Regis announced. Geralt blinked, staring at him.

“What?”

“Alas, as much as I like to theorise that they somehow administered some vampiric genes into your Trial of the Grasses, they clearly did not pass on our sense of hearing which, forgive me for saying so, appears to still be sharper than yours,” Regis sighed, casting the witcher a fond glance. “The cave is empty; I cannot see nor hear anything indicative of life within. It is, quite simply, as silent as the grave.”

“Damn. Must’ve run off then,” Geralt groaned. He crouched down, resisting the urge to choke against the fetid stench that met him, and he squinted against the looming darkness. He saw something within. He was not close enough to determine what it was exactly, but his thoughts immediately turned to the second set of footprints he had seen. And he reached his conclusion. “I’m going in.”

“What can you see?”

“With a bit of luck, his friend.”

Regis nodded solemnly and stepped back. He watched as Geralt crouched down, ducking his head under the overhanging rock and clay that formed the gaping maw of the cave within, and with a sharp cuss and a heave of breath he slid past the festering remnants of bones and gnawed flesh of things that the witcher did not even want to think of. His stomach heaved in the dark against the overpowering stench. Thankfully the cave was not deep, and he soon found himself leaning over the body that he had seen from the entrance.

It was human, just as he suspected. Body only just starting to cool and not yet stiffened in the early stages of rigor mortis, it was clear the death was recent – and judging by the still-fresh looking bites from the flesh upon his limbs, muscle chewed completely through, so was the ghoul’s meal. Geralt found the ghoul, too. Dead. It had been sliced through with a blade, which had been thrown down next to both corpses. Its guts had spilled onto the ground, and Geralt realised what had been the cause of such a powerful stench.

“Geralt?”

He cleared his throat, swallowing against the smell and coughing before responding.

“Dead. The ghoul, too. Doesn’t look much like a fight – man’s skull is cracked at the back, like he just tripped… died from his injuries,” Geralt began, tilting the man’s head to the side and studying the gruesome blow to the back of his cranium. The rock behind his head was stained with blood. “Ghoul got to him shortly after; the bite marks still look recent. If the man we found in the alley showed up here after, that was probably when the ghoul lashed out at him, tore at his chest. Sword here suggests that he defended himself, cut the ghoul right through and then fled, dropping his weapon.” He leant back. “Right into the city, which is where he was poisoned and killed.”

“That certainly explains another half of the mystery,” Regis called back, and Geralt saw the vampire crouching down by the cave entrance, his brows pulled together in thought. “It still answers pitifully little, sadly.”

“That it does,” Geralt sighed. “There’s nothing else here. Gotta burn the bodies, prevent any other ghouls from coming back.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Regis pulled away from the cave entrance and waited whilst Geralt set fire to the corpses. The flames licked hungrily at the flesh they burnt, and soon the witcher re-emerged, a foul grimace on his face which almost rivalled the foulness of the smell around him.

“Shit, I stink.” He looked at Regis, who was doing his best to fight a smile. “Next time you go down there.”

“A tempting offer, but I think I may pass,” Regis grinned.

Geralt dusted himself off, muttering sharply worded curses which made the vampire’s fanged grin widen even more, and only after the witcher was well and truly satisfied that the fresh air had stifled the stench of death as much as was possibly able had they then moved on. The sun at this point had darkened over the horizon, hidden as it was by the mountain ranges in the far distance. A golden glow had cast itself upon the lake and the surrounding trees, and in the near distance the red tiles of the castle glistened and glittered in the early evening light. It did nothing to ease the mood, however.

“The poison. Hope you have some thoughts on that because I’m leaving that all in your hands,” Geralt muttered as the pair traversed the grassy knolls, the lone standing cottage amidst the decaying huts scorched by the fires of 1268 steadily advancing upon them through the copse of elms, alders and willows.

“Sadly not enough to go on without some further indication as to the other reagents used,” Regis sighed. “I have been running through my mind some various formulae that could possibly incite the same symptoms we have observed, but nothing comes readily to mind. It is most frustrating.”

“You? Getting frustrated? Must be the end of the world.” Geralt was unable to resist the smirk on his lips; the fresh air, the walk, and the company did wonders to now improve his sullen mood. Regis waved the comment off, seemingly more focused on the task at hand than witty banter.

At least that was the impression he was trying to give.

Geralt heard his soft chuckle regardless.

The remainder of the walk was silent; Geralt felt fingers seek his touch and he eagerly answered the silent plea, his hand tightening around the gentle hold of Regis’ own. From the corner of his eye he saw the faintest of smiles dance upon the vampire’s lips, and his stomach curled, chest aching with a delicious surge of satisfaction.

He wanted to say it. Right here, right now. Even in the midst of a murder, he wanted to open his mouth and say what was on his mind, what was in his heart. But he didn’t. So he tightened his hand still and wondered if that would be enough. Regis’ smile softened and for a moment the vampire’s eyes closed.

It was.

Geralt felt the weight of the world fall from his shoulders.

And so they walked, hands intertwined with no fear of anyone seeing. Geralt thought back to Regis’ earlier comment and found himself wondering, found himself questioning if there hadn’t been something in his words that had pulled at his interest, tugged at his thoughts until he too began to think of what it would be like… the waters of Loch Eskallot, under different circumstances, at a different time… he scoffed inwardly to himself; he never considered himself a romantic, but then again, he hadn’t considered himself to be many things before Regis had shown himself at Corvo Bianco and had turned his very life around. He sighed.

He was shaken from his musings by the very object of his thoughts a moment later, and it wasn’t until he blinked and glanced up that he had realised how much time he had lost, stuck in his own musings as he was. They stood at the foot of the destroyed Elm district. Destroyed, save for the one thing that remained untouched. 

“We have arrived,” Regis began, stopping now in front of the herbalist’s hut that loomed before them. A small thing, barely large enough to house more than one person, it instilled a certain impression within the beholder that this was a home that belonged to someone who valued their privacy above all else.

“Bit risky, setting up shop here,” Geralt mused, considering the sign hanging from the roof swaying gently on springs that squeaked with each rock forwards. It was ordinarily plain; bearing no name, the wood was painted on with a crudely drawn potion phial instead. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. “Tucks himself away from the rest of the town and doesn’t look like he gets many visitors. Prime target for bandits.”

“Hm. Acts of self-preservation often blind the eye to matters deemed less important,” Regis agreed. Geralt blinked. Regis saw the momentary confusion in his lover’s eyes and gestured to the shop windows, of which the two could barely see what was inside thanks to the frosted glass in the window panes. “One would immediately assume that he fears the company of others; we are in a town that is notorious for its xenophobia and history of racial tensions, after all. An alchemists’s life is worth almost just a less as one that is dwarven or elven, and so solitude is the only apparent course of action. But as you so rightly pointed out, bandits would be among those he is more likely to encounter in such periods of solitude. Certainly it is far too dangerous for the townspeople to wander down to the lakes by themselves.”

“Guard said that he was the only alchemist in the city,” Geralt reminded him. Regis nodded gravely.

“Which is why I fear that he has led us purposely astray.”

Geralt dropped his hand away and turned to face Regis fully.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh come now, Geralt,” Regis blinked, “it is not so easy to discern me as such at first glance, but you? A witcher, a mutant? Identifiably non-human in all respects, as even you yourself have frequently argued in favour of. Despite their desperately needing to employ our aid to explain to them what cannot be so easily explained, I highly doubt that the guards would send us to the same alchemist that the rest of Rivia have the noble services of. We are by all means still a plague upon the town, one that the people would happily rise up to eradicate once again. You cannot say you didn’t notice the tension as we entered the gates?”

Geralt paused a moment, then found himself nodding. He had noticed it. He would have been blind not to have. He had purposely pushed it from his mind, however. Regis smiled sadly.

“And to have the infamous Geralt of Rivia within the city, inquiring about murders and asking for poisons… the walls have ears, my dear witcher, and Queen Meve would know that her guards had failed her. She would have their heads – and yours, as well – on pikes before dawn.” He turned back, reaching out a hand to knock upon the door. He glanced at Geralt from the corner of his eye. “So let us hope that our guardsman friend’s subtle attempts to throw us out of the city bear fruit for our endeavours.”

He stepped back, tightening his hand around Geralt’s own in a final squeeze of reassurance before dropping it, the sound of slow footsteps shuffling forwards to answer being barely audible from within.

The door opened, but not fully. From the darkness inside they could see a lone eye, milky pale but still sharp of sight, peering out at them. It narrowed.

“What do ye want?” His voice was hoarse, weathered by age and laced with all manner of suspicion.

“To inquire upon your knowledge,” Regis answered politely. “Would you happen to be the one they call Steffick?”

The door opened an inch further. A curved nose made itself known, alongside the second of the pair of pale eyes and the wrinkled, gnarled skin of the man’s face. He was old, fast journeying towards the last few years of his life by Geralt’s estimate. His snow white beard trailed down towards his hips.

“I am he,” Steffick answered slowly. “What help could I possibly offer ye?” His eyes narrowed in on Regis’ face, and then upon Geralt's own. A sharp grunt rumbled within his chest. “A witcher,” he nodded as if confirming something to himself and he stepped back, holding the door open. “Inside, quickly.”

Regis and Geralt shared a glance in silent confusion, but wasted no time in entering. Steffick closed the door behind them.

The heady waft of herbs and spices greeted them as they looked around; the shop was dimly lit, candles on sconces throwing off a dancing, feeble light. Bookshelves had been stocked with jars full of roots, flowers, seeds and powders, and baskets laden with overflowing plants and all manner of a curious array of mushrooms were littered here and there. Geralt only recognised half, and wondered just how Steffick had come by such rare ingredients; almost none of them were native in the southern parts of the world. A cauldron bubbled by the fireplace, smelling of the man’s dinner, and within the cramped quarters the only place to sit was a small table set for one. It too was decorated with baskets of weeds and an impressive set of well-maintained laboratory equipment that almost rivalled those found within Corvo Bianco’s cellars.

In the centre of all this the alchemist stood, and regarded them both again with his milky stare. Geralt had just opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted.

“Now what knowledge could a witcher seek from old Steffick?” As he spoke, Steffick strode to the cauldron bubbling away by the fire; the steam rose in billowing wisps that curled and licked at the air. He stirred the contents and leant down, tasting the concoction with the spoon. He then reached upwards, grabbed a small pot and pinched what looked to be salt of some description into the broth below, and replaced the salt atop the overhead shelf. When he turned to face them again the corners of his wrinkled eyes stretched thinly in an ugly show of impatience. "Well? Spit it out. I haven't got all day." As he spoke his lips moved to reveal rows of stained, rotten teeth. 

“Would you happen to know of the alchemical properties of dragonsroot, Master Steffick?” Regis asked, saving Geralt the trouble of doing so.   

The old man nodded, his wizened visage shrouded once more in the shadows of the candlelight as he moved to his shelves of roots and herbs. He reached up a gnarled hand, tracing the caps of jars as if in search of something.

“Aye. A very rare, very old plant. Almost as old as Steffick,” the man chortled. “A powerful hallucinogen. Why do you ask me so?”

Geralt stepped forward.

“Wouldn’t happen to know of it being used in a poison, would you?”

Steffick tilted his head, glancing at the witcher over his shoulder with one milky eye. His expression was unreadable as he lowered his eyes first to the silver medallion upon his breast, and then back to Geralt's face.

“Does the Wolf wish to learn new formulae?” He asked. Geralt narrowed his eyes.

“No thanks.”

“A poison of dragonsroot, capable of causing great psychological trauma in the victim shortly before death… varying and violent degrees of paranoia, visions that induce a horrible howling and screaming… is it possible to concoct something of that kind?” Regis continued, watching as Steffick pulled down one jar and held it in his hand, his fingers dancing now to another jar the row above it. He hummed lowly, an off-key tune that was both familiar and haunting.

“Sit.”

Geralt and Regis froze, taken aback by the command. Steffick swept his hand over to the table covered with baskets and equipment, and seeing that the herbalist was not willing to tell them more until they were indeed seated, they acquiesced. Another chair was found near the fireplace, almost hidden by the piles of firewood before it, and Geralt and Regis sat and waited.

Steffick plucked another jar from the shelves. And another. And then he turned and dug his hand deep into a basket hanging from the sconce beside him. What he pulled out made the witcher and vampire gasp; prickly, pale pink in colour and ending in a bushel of dark orange thorned leaves, the dragonsroot was placed on the table before them with the four small jars, around the alembics and glasses already laid there.

Geralt snapped his head up, realisation dawning on him.

“You made the poison.”

“Powdered and diluted with nostrix, verbena, wolfsbane and mandrake leaf…” Regis closed his eyes after inspecting each ingredient in the jars and sighed heavily. “Of course. Natural ingredients but highly toxic when introduced with a heavily mind-altering reagent such as the dragonsroot. It’s no wonder the suffering he endured before his death.” He looked at Steffick, a carefully veiled anger brimming within his dark eyes. “Why did you do it?”

“Do you know why I make my home here?” Steffick answered instead, fixing his milky eyes upon the sole window in his cottage.

“No. Tell us why you killed him,” Geralt growled, his patience growing thin. 

“I was told to live here,” the alchemist ignored him, still watching the window. “I came here after the massacres hoping to heal those left behind. I was forced into the ruins of Elm by the guards.” He smiled, his yellow teeth reflecting the light from the window as he turned and fixed the witcher and vampire with a passive stare. “But all was not for naught. A group of people visited me regularly, gave Steffick coin and food and I gave them herbs, potions.”

“Enough of the life story, tell us—”

“Men who need punishing deserve to be punished,” Steffick snapped, his hoarse voice carrying to all corners of the hut. Geralt faltered, taken aback by the sudden sharpness of the man’s eyes, the sudden hostility in his voice. Regis’ fingers clenched on the tabletop, as if clawing slowly into the wood. “And so it was with the man who died. I did not ask his crimes, nor his story. Asked to make the poison I was, and I delivered. One drop, I said, one touch upon his tongue and hysteria would overcome him. Nay, I did not kill him. He killed himself.”

Another silence fell upon them.

“He killed himself?” Regis asked, his gentle voice now cold and hard.

“Aye, a beautiful sight it was, too. Grasped the knife he did, brought it across his throat in the alleyway. Only then would the poison’s demons and wraiths haunting him stop.”

“We checked the alleyway. There wasn’t any knife,” Geralt hissed, his patience now reaching its end. “You killed him, and you’re a damn poor liar.”

“He was a bandit. Part of Greyneck Gortag’s band,” Steffick stated calmly, still smiling that ugly smile. “Or did the guards not tell you _that_ either, master witcher?”

Geralt paused, his mouth open. The momentary confusion soon gave way to realisation, and he recalled where he had heard that name before. The herald, when they had first entered the city.

“If it is as you say,” Regis spoke at length, “that he was indeed a criminal belonging to such a band, then perhaps you could also explain to us why he saw fit to enter a ghoul’s nest shortly before he was poisoned?”

“I cannot, for I did not ask, nor did I care. But I was told he did not know the ghoul awaited in the dark. Fear had claimed him, and fear can make people do interesting things, make them eager to... run away from one demon, only to encounter yet another.”

“Fear?” Geralt leant forward in his seat. Steffick cackled.

“Fear. Everyone in the city fears Greyneck Gortag,” he replied. “The people fear him, the guards fear him, his followers fear him… why, even old man Steffick fears him.” He leant in, and the sour stench of his breath and rotten teeth wafted over them. “You should fear him too, because he knows about you, witcher.”

“How?” Geralt asked, annoyed. “Only just arrived. Haven’t been here long enough yet.”

“Men remember the massacres. Meve herself remembers. They also remember the bounty attached to your white head, Wolf.”

Geralt fell silent. Regis stood suddenly, his eyes narrowed.

“Your knowledge of this is somewhat disconcerting,” he said quietly. “I wonder if perhaps it isn’t possible that you yourself would be this ‘Greyneck Gortag’?”

Steffick laughed long and loud, the devilish cackle sounding high and crazed. When he looked back at the vampire tears had sprouted in his pale milky eyes.

“Nay, I am not he,” he smiled. “Such knowledge you possess in your eyes, master, and yet you still cannot piece it all together?”

“I’ve had enough of this,” Geralt hissed, standing up alongside Regis and drawing his sword. “You know who he is, what he wants and why he ordered that man killed. Where is he?”

Steffick stared long and hard at the witcher, unperturbed by the steel flashing in front of his face. When he finally spoke, his withered voice was now quiet, a harsh whisper.  

“You have already met him.”

Geralt tightened his hand around his sword hilt.

“What?”

“Geralt,” Regis warned, his head turning towards the door. He could hear something; the sound of heavy footsteps, the clanking of armour. Fast approaching. Geralt looked at him, seeing where the vampire was focusing his attention. Then he heard it too. And understood why the old man had kept them in here for so long, glancing out of the window every time he spoke. His teeth clenched tightly in his mouth, and he tasted blood. _“Bastard.”_

Steffick didn’t speak. Geralt, sword in hand, strode to the door, nodding at Regis who clasped his hand around the doorhandle. They waited for the footsteps to stop outside. Another beat of silence. And then the voice called out.

“Master Steffick? The boys need seeing to. Hope you’ve got it ready.”

The voice was oddly familiar. Geralt frowned, his hold faltering on his sword. Regis looked uncertain. Somebody knocked on the door.

“Master Steffick?” The voice called again.

Regis pulled the door open, and both he and Geralt froze where they stood. The guard captain who had left them to investigate the corpse in the alleyway stood before them, surprise on his moustachioed face – surprise which quickly turned into open hostility upon seeing the sword in Geralt’s hand. The two officers behind him touched their own sword hilts warningly.

“Witcher,” the captain began coldly, “I would not advise it.”

Geralt slowly sheathed his sword, the guards likewise drawing their own hands back – if more hesitantly at first.

“What are you doing here?” The captain asked, stepping back to let Geralt and Regis walk past him.

“Our job,” Geralt replied icily. The man stared at him a moment and then sighed, his shoulders slumping with relief. He looked at the officers beside him and nodded, and they approached the alchemist who was watching with those pale eyes of his.

“A few of the lads in the barracks have come down with the pox,” the captain explained when he saw the witcher and vampire observe the exchange at the doorway. “Came here asking if he had that tonic of his made up yet.”

“As of yet there’s no tonic that can cure the pox,” Regis said. The man nodded solemnly.

“Aye, there ain’t. But it’ll make the passing more pleasant.” He beckoned them to follow with a gauntleted finger, and they did so, falling into step beside him as the two other officers remained behind. There was silence for a moment as they followed the path towards the city gates, the evening growing darker and the chill of night growing more prominent thanks to the sun’s final descent behind the mountain ranges.

“It’s good I found you again,” the captain continued when they had passed the gates, the guardsmen on watch closing the great wooden doors behind them with a loud, resounding clamour, barring them once more within the city. “I’m anxious to see what you’ve learnt. I was going to send out a search party.”

“We know what killed him and how,” Geralt began, keeping his tone short. “Also know who’s behind it.”

“Really?” The captain stopped in his tracks and turned to face them, his eyes wide. “Who? We’ll get that whoreson whoever and wherever he is, on the honour o’ the Queen herself!”

“All in due time,” Regis cleared his throat. “If you will pardon my forwardness, I fear the street is no place to speak of such matters. It is a rather troubling situation that we have found ourselves stumbling upon.”

Geralt nodded his agreement and the captain gazed at him. He then nodded quickly, and his face grew sombre.

“There’s wisdom in those words,” he agreed, and motioned for them to follow him again. “Probably just as well, too. Needed to take you to the morgue anyway.”

“Why?” Geralt asked, already dreading the answer. The captain looked at him and his moustache bristled. The look in his eyes all but confirmed it.

“There’s been another one.”

 

*

 

The scent of formaldehyde and the slowly decaying stench of death was a powerfully repulsive aroma in the cold warehouse built into the far end of the city beside the sewer entrance. The brick walls kept out the heat and ensured that no airflow from the outside readily entered the morgue within, and sconces and lanterns lit with candles provided the only light by which to see with. Guards had been waiting outside to greet them and let them pass, and two of the three city’s coroners patiently stood off to one side when Geralt and Regis were guided in. The last of the coroners had died the year previously.

The moustachioed captain stopped beside a table over which a figure draped in a shroud had been placed. Pulling it back, the herald from the town square gazed up at them with unseeing eyes.

“Found him like that shortly after you left,” the captain announced, stepping back to let the two close in around the corpse. “He’d gone into the tavern for a bite to eat and when he came out he was attacked by a group of men an’ left in the street for all to see. Caused quite a commotion, let me tell you.”

“Hm. Blade marks on his stomach, thin in length and angling upwards into the lungs, through the heart… it would suggest he met his end with a sword or similar weapon. The strike was well-timed and well-aimed… he would have died instantly. There’s also signs of a blunt trauma to the head, but given the experienced and purposeful hand that dealt his death these wounds would have only resulted from his collapse to the ground,” Regis stated as he moved forward and examined the body, moving his fingers to indicate the bloody wound on the man’s stomach and the bruising on his head.

“Yes, our coroners said the same,” the captain confirmed. He looked at Regis. “You seem well-versed in medical knowledge. You a surgeon, by any chance?”

Regis nodded absentmindedly.

“I am.” He pulled back and glanced at Geralt.

“Any reason why he was targeted?” Geralt asked, turning his attention to the captain. The man shrugged.

“News gets people angry, particularly the news they don’t very much like. Take your pick.”     

Geralt shook his head.

“Don’t know if it’s connected unless we find out more details. For all we know this could’ve been a random attack.”

“As you say, sir,” the captain said. He cleared his throat. “What about the other corpse?”

“Ah… a rather troubling case,” Regis answered. “If we are correct in our recollection of events, it would appear he had walked with another man into a ghoul den outside the city, by the lakeside. Perhaps an argument of some sorts ensued, as the second man had fallen, resulting in him striking his head upon a rock and dying from he impact. A ghoul, entirely unknown to either at the time, had lunged towards the corpse. In doing so, it had attempted to defend itself against the sword our victim brandished in retaliation, and managed to puncture his chest with its claws.” Regis stepped back, standing once more at Geralt's side. “He fled, leaving his sword and running from the cave. Between the time he had escaped and the time he had ended up in the city’s alleyways, he was given a particularly nasty form of poison which deteriorated his mind and induced severe psychotic episodes which resulted in him ultimately taking his own life by a blade to the neck. He died where he fell in the shadows. We inspected the scene but there was no knife to be found, though the evidence of his madness was chillingly apparent in his terror-struck expression.”

Regis looked at the captain.

“It remains yet to be seen why he and this man deemed it wise to enter that particular cave in the first place, as well as the exact moment when he was given the poison.”

The captain looked troubled. Geralt tore his eyes away from the herald’s body and gazed coolly at the moustachioed man.

“Might interest you to know that your alchemist Steffick made the poison that killed him,” he said coldly. “Brewed it from dragonsroot – a powerful hallucinogenic that’s fatal in large doses. Said he was told to by people who paid him to make it. Wouldn’t happen to know who that might be, would you?”

The captain shook his head, his brows furrowing further into his forehead by the minute.

“The man knows his potions, true, and anyone could’ve gone up to him. Even the guards. Iona doesn’t know fuck all.”

“Iona?” Regis echoed.

“Runs her shop in the upper trade quarter… smart lass but she only specialises in growing herbs.”

“Interesting…”

“How?”

“When we asked a guardsman about alchemists he replied that Steffick was the only one here,” Regis explained, keeping silent about his suspicions that it was on purpose. Now he knew that it may very well have been. The captain looked annoyed.

“Idiot. Probably one o’ the new ones. We had an intake of fresh blood in the guard a couple of weeks back. Clearly he hasn’t patrolled that far up the city yet.”

“Clearly.”

“There’s also something else,” Geralt said slowly, and he gauged the captain’s face carefully as he spoke.

“What’s that, sir?”

“Steffick mentioned the man poisoned was a bandit. One of Greyneck Gortag’s men. Herald was talking about him when we entered the city – he been troubling anyone around here lately?”

The look in the captain’s eyes darkened immediately upon hearing that name. His moustache twitched.

“That whoreson…” He whispered. “Yeah, he’s been at it. Been trying to get him for weeks, now. One of his men, you say?” He glanced over at the other table in the corner where another corpse had been laid out, shroud in place. It was undoubtedly the body of the bandit. “Good riddance. Cryin’ shame we didn’t take him in first for questioning, though.”

“Greyneck Gortag?”

The three turned in unison to look at one of the coroners standing by in the corner, who had just perked up at hearing their conversation. He cleared his throat under the three sets of eyes staring intently at him, and he nervously picked at his fingernails.

“The herald was warning about him again just before he was murdered,” he stammered nervously. “I was in the town square when it happened and I helped carry him here to the morgue. I didn’t see who killed him, but they ran out the gates…” he then added, seeing that a further explanation was required.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say so before?!” The captain asked incredulously. The coroner appeared to shrink back against the wall.

“I… it’s not my place to interrupt, sir.”

The captain groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. His moustache bristled again.

“Did he say anything else?” He asked. His question was directed to Geralt and Regis.

“Only that I’m apparently known to him and everyone else around here. You didn’t tell me Meve still has that bounty on my head,” Geralt said drily. The captain scoffed.

“If I did, would you have investigated the matter?”

Geralt’s silence confirmed that he wouldn’t have. The captain smiled smugly. He then looked at the coroner.

“Get the reports written up and burn the bodies,” he ordered. The coroner bowed his head. Then the captain turned back to the others.

“Right. Follow me, the both of you. I’d like to have a word with Steffick myself. About that poison of his in particular, and then we’ll see if we can’t find those murderers who ran off.” He then motioned to the two other guards who had been standing by the gate. “You two, get over there now. Call the rest.”

The guards nodded and retreated immediately. With a heavy sigh and a look that brooked no argument, the captain gestured for the witcher and vampire to follow those who had just left. Behind them they heard the man mutter to himself. 

“Just one day where everything goes right, why’s that so hard to ask?”  

Regis and Geralt shared a look; they often wondered the same.

 

*

 

The small isolated hut in the burnt remnants of Elm was not so isolated after all when they returned. A group of armed men – some soldiers, some citizens armed with truncheons and knives – surrounded the cottage that belonged to the alchemist Steffick.

Geralt was close by Regis’ side as they walked, the vampire likewise taking care to not stray too far from the witcher. Something was wrong. They could almost taste it in the air, the tension thick and hovering like a cloud.

“Not too many guards here,” Geralt announced casually, casting his eyes over to the captain striding a few feet ahead. “Who’re the others? Didn’t think he had that many friends.”

“You’d be surprised,” the captain replied. He offered no more answer than that, focused as he was on gesturing for one of the guardsmen to break open the door. “We need to question him and that’s exactly what we’ll be doing. I want to know what the fuck’s going on here.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” Geralt muttered. Beside him Regis’ lips quirked.

“Steffick! Get out here. I want to have a word with you!” The captain called out, his voice raised into a yell. By the hut the men gathered sniggered and exchanged predatory glances. Geralt stopped, Regis stopping alongside him. The captain did not notice, nor did he seem to care.

 _Thud_. The soldiers by the door pushed their weight against it, rattling the sign above and the hinges on the doorframe. The windows shook.

 _Thud_.

Movement could be seen inside.

 _Thud_.

The door creaked, broke and collapsed, falling inwards in a plume of dust and a crack of wood. Steffick stood in the revealed entrance, milky eyes narrowed and gnarled hands twisting together before him.

“There you are, Steffick,” the captain smiled. It was a smile that was subtle in its cruelty. Geralt narrowed his eyes. Regis’ hands twitched. They looked at one another and felt danger.

It was a trap.

Steffick saw the company gathered, saw each of those surrounding his hut. And he saw the witcher and vampire, and his stern eyes widened into an expression that could only be equal to fear. The guardsman by the door moved first.

A flash of silver, a sudden gleam of reflected moonlight off a long, sharpened blade, and a splash of crimson danced before the eyes of all watching.

Steffick’s head rolled to the grass below him, his wide, fearful eyes frozen eternally in their look of horror upon his face as his body slumped downwards, blood spurting from the gaping wound.

Geralt spurred into action, bringing his sword down and holding it tightly in his hand with one swift, well-practised movement. Regis’ lips curled and he lowered his stance, back pressed against Geralt’s own, hands twitching furiously with the need to rein in his claws lest he give himself away. His eyes darted to the head on the ground, to the bleeding stump of the neck.

He swallowed, smelling blood. He looked away.

“Good talk?” Geralt called out, pupils slitted and eyes appearing to flash in his anger. His hands tightened upon the blade; he felt its weight in his hands, felt the comfort it brought at knowing that he had something between him and the monsters before him. An amused laughter rang through the crowd of men gathered, and the captain turned to face him.

“Very. He had that coming for a while,” he drawled. Then he sighed. “Couldn’t keep his mouth shut.” He drew his sword, holding it loosely by his side. He regarded both witcher and vampire with a calculating glance, as if he was pondering something about them. He cleared his throat and paced forwards.

“D’you know much about running a business, witcher?” He asked. Geralt stared at him.

“Had a brief stint in a vineyard. Know how many grapes go into making a bottle of Erveluce, for example,” he replied at length. Greyneck Gortag, for that was the captain’s name, laughed. He stroked his grey moustache, his fingers brushing the fine grey bristles sprouting on his neck.

“Erveluce… a fine wine. Quite dry.”

“I like it.”

“A good palate you have there. Wouldn’t’ve expected a witcher to understand the subtle nuances about Toussaint wines. But I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“Indeed. Perhaps you would like to explain this elaborate scheme to capture us and corner us?” Regis spoke up, his voice level and calm despite the bandits that now drew into a tight circle around them, blocking them in. Their weapons were raised, as if daring the two to make the first move. Regis pressed further against Geralt’s back, the witcher doing likewise, taking comfort in the heat of the vampire behind him.

“Marlon was a deserter, see,” Greyneck began, dancing his fingers atop the hilt of his blade. “He had a bit of a scuffle with his friend Thornton, and they got drunk. Tempers flared. They wandered into a ghoul’s nest despite my adamant protest, and Thornton fell and cracked his head on the wall. I was angry with Marlon, but I didn’t interfere. Thought the ghoul’d finish him off. I was wrong, clearly.” He paused, casting a thoughtful glance over to the body of Steffick, the blood pooling from his neck staining the grass around him with its dark, sticky hue.

“He came out screaming from his wounds. I had my boys take him to Steffick and order him to make a little something to keep him quiet. Then I heard that a witcher was in town… but not only was he _just_ a witcher… he was the famous Geralt of Rivia… I couldn’t believe the luck the gods had bestowed on me this morning.” He smiled, and his smile was depraved. Geralt tightened his hand further on his sword. Regis said nothing.

“Had him whip up a little batch of his famous poison instead. Told him Marlon deserved it, was a criminal, etc. etc… Steffick always _did_ have a poetic sense of justice. So me and my boys, we held him down and gave him a little taste of it. Then set a knife in his hands and sent him on his way. He did the rest himself. Quite a beautiful thing to witness, really.”

“I’m sure it was,” Regis said quietly. Gortag smiled.

“Anyway, bottom line… there’s still a bounty on your head, Geralt, and getting you here the most creative way I knew how is, I think, something worthy of a bonus. I’m sure Meve’ll throw in double for your friend here. He was with you when you deserted her service, was he not?” He saw the looks thrown between the two and nodded. “Word got around about that hansa of yours, too. Had a merry little band, as I heard it. Though going by the lack of... four of you, I'd say they met a fate they didn't rightly deserve.” His smile was insincere, and Regis straightened his stance, feeling tension in his muscles whilst Geralt ground his teeth and grew still.

“Your condolences are appreciated, I'm sure,” Regis said coldly. Gortag nodded.

“And? What about Steffick? His death part of the plan too or did you kill him just because you felt like it?” Geralt spat. Gortag looked at him.

“Actually, I had the herald killed because I felt like it,” he shrugged. “Annoying old prick. Same thing day in, day out… needed a change of scenery around here, anyway. Maybe they’ll get someone else… a nice buxom wench, perhaps?” He grinned and his men laughed, leering and whistling their sick appreciation of that quip. Gortag sighed, licking his lips and then clearing his throat. “Steffick was last minute. He told you too much and had to be silenced. That’s it. Loose ends, all that. Now then!” He clapped his hands and looked around, as if checking to see that all eyes were on him. They were. His smile dropped immediately, and he narrowed his eyes on the witcher and vampire circled in before him. He raised his sword.

“Sure about that?” Geralt asked, keeping his eyes centred solely on Gortag. “I’ve killed my fair share of monsters. Dealt with large packs like this plenty of times in my life and I’m still standing.”

“Geralt, please try not to encourage them,” Regis sighed behind him.

Gortag only grinned again.

“Kill them. Slowly now, don’t rush in all at once. I want to see the legendary witcher at work.”

A low murmur rang throughout the crowd. Geralt cussed under his breath and raised his sword outwards, forming a defensive position to parry whoever it was who dared attack first. There were twenty of them, all in a circle. Guards and bandits alike. He and Regis were only two.

Behind him he felt Regis take a slow, steadying breath.

“Geralt, I think that under the current circumstances I may have to… well, how should I say this in the most delicate terms one can manage when they are held at sword’s length? ‘Let myself go’ a bit.”

Geralt nodded. He couldn’t see any other way out of this. They didn't know that Regis was a vampire, and so they had the element of surprise. They were outnumbered, true, but with the strength that both men possessed, Geralt was confident that they would make short work of Gortag's men. The problem, however, lay in what would happen if someone saw them. They were close to a human settlement - far too close - and the risks were equally as great. It seemed the worst possible solution, but he sincerely doubted that any of these bandits would remain alive long enough to tell the tale. At least, that was his hope. 

They were also running out of time, and they had no choice.

Perhaps more importantly through all this, he was worried for Regis. He knew he shouldn’t be; he’d had full faith in him in Toussaint, had _always_ had full faith in him, and knew that even with the events that had transpired at Tesham Mutna, horrifying as they were, Regis would always come out in the end smiling. It was just how he was. Geralt closed his eyes and swallowed thickly, and took a steadying breath himself. His chest ached. And for not the first time he wanted to say it – to give in to the temptation, the constant gnawing at the back of his mind that grew day by day. He wanted to trust himself, felt he finally _could_ trust himself… his doubts were waning. Waning quickly.  

“Probably a bad time to say what’s on my mind right now, isn’t it?” He mused drily. He heard Regis laugh behind him.

“Later, Geralt,” he whispered. But he understood. And that was more than enough for Geralt.

They heard the murmurings of the men approaching. Another bandit took a step closer. Then another. And another.

“You’ve got nowhere to hide, grey locks,” one of them said, drawling as he fixed Geralt with a lopsided grin. He was wielding a truncheon, slapping the barbed metal spikes against his hand menacingly.

“Let’s see the whoresons dance!” said another, licking the length of his sword, the blade glistening under the saliva dripping down its cold metal tip.

Gortag chuckled and merely waited, eager to see who would break first.  Geralt narrowed his eyes. Regis raised his hands.

“I take the left, you take the right?” Geralt tilted his head and looked at the vampire. Regis nodded and bared his fangs.

“With pleasure.”

There was a brief moment when surprise gave the attackers pause. The sharpness of those teeth made them freeze, reconsider their approach in that small instant as uncertainty and horror-filled disbelief froze their limbs in place. They didn’t get much more time than that.

Regis lowered his hands, sliced them through the air in a swift downward stroke and claws long, cruel, and sharp extended in the blink of an eye. An inhuman hiss fell from his lips, and with a bestial cry his fangs gnashed and snapped; screams tore through the air as the vampire disappeared seemingly in a thick gust of grey smoke, and swords struggled to find and make contact with their invisible foe.

Blood arced gracefully in thick, gruesome streams.

A man choked on the pain and lifeblood gurgling in his throat.

The first one to die fell, crumpling to the ground with a gaping hole torn clean through his chest. And behind him was the vampire, corporeal once again with crimson dripping from his clawed hands, soaking his arms in a bath of blood.

It was over in less than a second.

And that was when it all began.

“M-monster!” cried a man with an axe, his eyes white with fear.

“Don’t just stand there! _Get them!”_

Geralt swung out, his sword blocking the overhead swing from the guardsman who pounced at him; steel grated on steel, sparks flying from the blades from the power of the blows which were struck. The witcher gritted his teeth, gazing at the man right in the eyes and pushing him back with a thrust upwards, breaking his parry. One slash was all it took when the guard stumbled and his head fell to the ground. Behind his corpse another howl of agony rent the air; fog moved, and bodies dropped behind it, one after the other. Geralt only just kept Regis within his sights, his attention focused on the two bandits running towards him, axes and knives flying. The smell of blood and fear was a sharp, intoxicating assault to his senses which in that moment were sharpened, heightened. Geralt almost smiled; it had been too long since he’d had a good fight.

He parried the man with the knife, spun around in a half pirouette and slashed upwards – the man yelled, clutching his left arm, the tendons and arteries now severed and rendered completely useless. His mate cussed violently and rained blow after blow down upon the witcher while the other sobbed and groaned weakly as he slumped to the floor. His sobbing was quickly cut off short when Geralt dodged another strike from the axe and used the momentum of his duck to dash forwards, slide his sword neatly in a swift diagonal strike through the wounded man’s chest and follow up with a swift curve of his blade to catch the second bandit’s axe once more.

He saw those angered eyes break their concentration from Geralt’s face in one brief moment to look down at the dismembered torso that bled onto the ground. Geralt smirked. _Big mistake_. He snarled, dropping his sword and making the bandit sway on his step, dragging his attention back to his enemy. Geralt head butted him, the bandit loosening a high pitched shriek as he dropped his axe and grabbed his brow. Geralt laid a hand on his shoulder and pulled him forwards, sinking his sword up to the hilt through the soft meat of his chest. Blood trickled down the blade, staining his gloved hands.

He heard Gortag yell, his mouth open wide in a battle cry. He wanted to find him, but he was surrounded on all sides. A sharp gust of wind blew past him, his hair blowing past his cheeks and a raging monstrous screech pierced his ears. Regis appeared before him, eyes black and wild and face contorted into something truly beastly. Geralt saw the blood and Tesham Mutna flashed before his eyes once more. He paused. For just a second. Then he found blades in his face. He felt a weight at his back, Regis against him and letting loose a roar of defiance in his bestial state – one that made men shudder and wail. And they moved as one; they span, whirling their bodies in a swift hurricane of movement. Sword flying, Geralt parried, half-turned and spun in an extended pirouette that blocked each and every one of the swords that thrust forwards to meet him. Regis lashed out, claws sinking deep into flesh and tearing heads from their bodies with devastating force. He disappeared into fog, catching two bandits off guard, and when he appeared again his claws blocked the rain of blows down on him; sparks flew around them like fire and he thrust forwards and ripped out their hearts.

They felt the weakening resistance of their foes, felt the strength waning from their bodies. Screams of horror, of disbelief echoed around them.

He only just managed to see it out the corner of his eye; something flew closer towards him, and instinctively Geralt raised his sword and parried. The crossbow bolt ricocheted back the way it had come, and the next instant Regis was there, holding the screaming man in place as the bolt pierced his chest. Geralt nodded to him, Regis inclining his head likewise, and that was all the communication either could manage. Geralt felt the adrenaline pumping through him, but he was panting. There were still too many surrounding them. Too many.

“They’re tiring! At them lads! _At them!”_

“Gortag! Where are you, you bastard?!” Geralt yelled, his voice cutting loud and clear over the clamour of steel and the screams of men. He couldn’t see him. Half of his men were dead, bleeding on the ground around them and he _couldn’t see him_. “Regis, find him!”

Regis couldn’t find him; no sooner had he lifted his head at Geralt’s call had he heard movement behind him and he struck out, lunging his claws through the guardsman’s chest, cutting effortlessly through the plate armour like a sheaf of wheat and slamming him down into the ground. He leant in close, snarled in the man’s face, tasting fear and smelling blood. Saliva dripped from his tongue.

Blood was everywhere. The bodies bathed in it.

Geralt saw Regis falter for an instant out the corner of his eye and he growled, throwing back the man who had cornered him.

“Regis!”

Regis shook his head, hissed and slammed the guardsman’s head into the soil. He evaporated into a mist, reappearing by Geralt’s side. Geralt cast him a quick glance, concern bleeding through his eyes. _I have to get him out of here._

He couldn’t voice those thoughts aloud for at that moment a loud, joyous laugh echoed around him. Witcher and vampire froze, turning to see Greyneck Gortag approaching, sword trailing the ground behind him. He’d been watching, waiting. Letting his men die so he could observe their every move. Geralt felt hatred blossom in his chest, burst forth like a maelstrom. He’d certainly encountered many monsters in his time… but none quite like him.

Geralt made a quick head count. Only nine men remained. Regis did likewise – his black eyes narrowed into cold slits. This time they did not wait for their enemies to come to them. Geralt pounced, muscles taut and body moving in fluid cat-like movements and Regis jumped high, barrelling down in a violent storm of fog and throwing two of the bandits against the nearby tree; the wood cracked and the tree’s boughs groaned with the impact of the forceful blows as the men slid down, eyes glazed over and rolled back into their skulls. The witcher yelled as he clashed his swords with Gortag, the bandit leader’s eyes wild with eager anticipation and sick satisfaction. His arm was strong and his judgement precise; he easily parried Geralt’s blow and pushed him back, Geralt jumping away so as to avoid a sword to the neck – he narrowly missed it, and out the corner of his eyes he could see strands of white hair float to the ground, Gortag’s sword giving him too much of a close shave for his liking.

Gortag drew back, not wanting to go for the kill, not falling for the trap – he waited for Geralt to straighten himself, thus avoiding any chance at a swift counterattack Geralt had been planning. The blood pounding in his ears, heart pumping fitfully, Geralt only barely registered the low guttural cry of his name and vaguely recognised it as Regis calling out to him from somewhere in front. He parried another deceptively light blow from Gortag, felt himself get pushed back… saw bandits close in around him. He dropped a hand, twitched his fingers ready to form the Sign of Aard if need be, but Regis beat him to it. The vampire moved in a fury, the only thing heard in that moment being the choking screams of dying men as they fell to the ground one after the other. Blood gushed and spurted grotesquely into the air, baptising the ground in fields of crimson. No one saw the blows. No one knew where they struck. Regis was fast, too fast.

Even Geralt could not register the speed with which he moved. The utter grace, the sheer animalistic brutality of a higher vampire fully bared for him to see and savour and it was his undoing. For the first time in a long time in the middle of a fight Geralt found himself distracted.

It was all the time Gortag needed.

He felt a white-hot pain burst through his skull, making him see double. With a groan Geralt shook his head and raised his sword to try and parry the incoming blow Gortag was about to deliver after the vicious head butt he had broken Geralt’s focus with. But it never came. He laughed, dancing around the witcher with an agility and grace that one would not have expected from a man in full plate armour; he struck again and again, each blow seemingly random, seemingly careless, but each strike was true. Geralt found himself being pushed back and he steadied his feet, breaking the next parry and going for a half-turn, then a riposte. He pushed outwards with his hand, tried to form the Sign of Aard, but he stopped and jumped out of the way just in time to avoid a sharp knee to the stomach before he managed to do so. Gortag was quick. Devilishly quick.

The witcher should have been quicker but he was tiring. And tiring fast.

At least that was what he led Gortag to believe.

Another thrust of the sword and Geralt growled, darting away and knocking the blade out of Gortag’s grip which had faltered just enough when the witcher had avoided his kick. The bandit leader left himself open on his left side whilst doing so. But then a hand moved, and Geralt found a gauntleted fist had soared towards his face.

He cussed, ducked, and was too late to see the knife quickly pulled from the bandit’s armoured hip. It thrust upwards, seeking to sink through his chest. A fatal wound. Directly in the heart.

Time slowed in that one second.

Geralt felt blood splattering upon his face, felt the thick warmth of it soak into his hair and stick to his skin. He tasted the metallic taste of it and faltered, stumbling back. He heard a hoarse cry that had trailed off into an unearthly scream and ended in a deathly howl. It then became a sick gurgling.

He saw human eyes before him, the eyes of Gortag frozen wide in an eternal expression of pain. His mouth was open, his grey moustache now almost black with blood. And he saw the monstrous fangs that sunk deep into his neck, crunching bone and skin and the metal of armour. Black eyes livid, enraged, stared down at the man in the vampire’s jaws and Regis sunk his fangs in deeper, squeezing the last of Gortag’s life out in a gruesome cascade of dripping blood and flesh. Geralt was frozen, unable to move. His eyes were wide.

With an effortless tug of his head Regis snarled through his fangs and pulled Gortag back, throwing him high in the air and letting him slam against the ground, body jerking with the force of the impact. Geralt’s fingers twitched and he blinked, glancing around him as if in a daze.

Everyone was dead.

The grass was bathed in blood and gore. Greyneck Gortag and his men had been defeated.

He heard a low moan from close by and he blinked, snapping his head around just in time to see claws slowly shorten, retract into sharp nailed hands. Hands that were coated in blood. Regis stumbled, his back to the witcher, and as he saw the vampire’s hands raise to grip his face he heard another low moan tear through Regis’ chest. He convulsed, body trembling.

Geralt sheathed his sword and ran to him.

“Regis?” He called, and he had no care for how his chest tightened, how his voice came out hoarse and unwilling. He didn’t think of it – of how he shouldn’t be feeling emotion, of how he should never be feeling something that so closely, painfully resembled _fear_. _“Regis!”_

Regis’ head was bowed and the next sound he heard wrenched a deep pain in Geralt’s gut. A broken sob tore from the vampire’s throat. He lowered his hands, and when he turned his head to look at Geralt the witcher stopped.

His eyes were bloodshot, so red it was almost hard to see what little white still remained. But his mouth… scarlet painted his lips and chin, painted the hands which had killed so many. The blood glistened on his pale skin, and Geralt could only stare. His thoughts scrambled in his brain, and the witcher could not react, could not do anything.

“Regis?” He couldn’t speak above a whisper. His mind was blank. Regis shook, a deep shudder running down his spine and he closed his eyes, turning away. Geralt heard the laboured panting of his breath, saw the fight to remain in control, to not give in to the intoxicating, tempting sweetness of addiction. Geralt finally willed himself to move and took half a step forward. He was stopped immediately by the vampire raising a hand to him, keeping him back.  

Regis groaned and opened his mouth.

And he spat the blood onto the ground.

Geralt swallowed, feeling his throat grow dry. Regis coughed and wiped his mouth, then spat out even more and retched, doubling over. Geralt cussed sharply, and he wanted nothing more than to go to him, to drag him away from this place. Get him cleaned up perhaps, or… he didn’t know. But he knew he had to help. 

_Damn it all to hell._

“Regis—”

“Geralt, stay back!” Regis snapped in-between sharp, frantic breaths, and it was a tone of voice he had never used with the witcher before. When he had at last regained control over his shaking limbs he turned his head. His eyes were raised, centred solely in on the witcher and Geralt saw fear in them. “I… do not know what I would do…”

Geralt stood his ground.

“Regis, let’s get out of here.”

Regis held up a hand again and continued to ward him off, recoiling sharply like a man that had been burnt.

“Leave me!” His tongue darted out to the corners of his mouth where blood still stained his skin, and he shuddered again, another low moan tearing from his chest. His eyes closed. He shook his head and hissed through his teeth, clenching his free hand into a tight fist that he then used to slam into the nearest tree. Its boughs creaked and groaned from the force of the blow. Geralt kept his eyes on him, keeping his distance as he waited as patiently as he could, taking another step closer each time Regis walked back. 

“Regis…” he said quietly, knowing that though the vampire had stopped warding him away he was still listening to him, still needed to hear the sound of his voice to calm down and focus. “I’m not gonna leave you. I’ll stay here as long as it takes. You’ve fought it before.”

“Oh… such naivety… I envy you, Geralt,” Regis laughed weakly and collapsed. Geralt was at his side in an instant, helping the vampire stand as Regis’ head lolled on his shoulder. He was shaking again.

“C’mon,” Geralt urged as he guided him, wrapping an arm tightly around his lover’s back as he walked forwards. Regis said nothing but dug his hand tightly into Geralt’s hip. He panted softly, trying to resist the urge, the need to dart his tongue out and taste again. But he didn’t – as Geralt knew he wouldn’t.

They walked slowly, Regis’ laboured breaths soon levelling into a slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest accompanied by an exhausted sigh. Geralt watched him as they approached the city gates, his eyes never straying from Regis’ face for long. He was angry with himself – he knew he shouldn’t have let this happen. But just as his angered thoughts rose and consumed him Geralt knew it was a waste. What had happened was unavoidable. And Regis… he would have stayed by his side all the way, no matter the cost it would have on him personally. It was exactly like Tesham Mutna all over again, and Geralt recalled the words that the vampire had spoken with such fierce determination in the crypt below Mère-Lachaiselongue cemetery: _“I would do it again. In a heartbeat.”_

And he had. Geralt looked down at the vampire he was supporting in his arms and he groaned, pressing his lips to Regis’ pale brow. He felt a weak smile pull at Regis’ mouth.

“Vent your frustrations on me later, Geralt… I need rest,” he whispered faintly.

Geralt had no answer to give, for he saw a guard approaching from the gates that now loomed before them. The flames from his torch flickered and danced light across his helmeted face, and the guard stopped in surprise when he saw the two men before him, one being held up by the other as if he was injured. That was when he saw the blood.

“Queen Meve’s tits!” He cried out, jaw dropping. “What happened out there?! We was just about to investigate – people said they heard screaming and yelling by the lake.”

Geralt was too tired for this. With his free hand he raised his fingers and formed a Sign.

“Your guards got into a fight with Gortag’s bandits,” he intoned, and the Axii-swayed eyes of the guard clouded over, “they’re all dead. You never saw us.”

“Aye… never saw you… Gortag and his men are dead…”

Geralt nodded. And they walked past him, leaving the man rocking idly on the spot.

 

*

 

Their lodgings in the tavern were warm and well-kept, with a freshly cleaned fireplace casting a healthy glow upon the wooden walls. The beds had mattresses and were draped with clean linens, and the windows looked out onto the trade quarter below, bathed in the evening light as the moon rose overhead. Geralt had waited whilst Regis had cleaned himself up upon their return, not wanting to leave him alone but knowing that Regis would need some time to gather his thoughts.

So when the vampire had left, Geralt had taken to dressing down to his breeches and undershirt, inspecting the cuts and bruises he had received from the tiring fight with Gortag and his bandits. They had already started to heal, and now were little more than pale pink splotches upon his skin, barely visible. He’d then gone down to see the innkeeper who had directed him to another bath, and savouring the warmth of hot water as it caressed his skin and soothed the ache in his muscles, Geralt washed the blood and muck from his body.

He’d returned to their room some fifteen minutes later to see that Regis was sitting before the fire, also freshly bathed and dressed just as Geralt was in breeches and a thin linen shirt, and gazing deep into the flames with a heavily contemplative look in his dark eyes.

Geralt closed and locked the door behind him, and he stood with his back to the wall, gazing silently at the vampire. It was another minute until he spoke.

“You ok, Regis?”

Regis sighed, bowing his head and rubbing his brow with a hand.

“I am much better now, yes,” he said quietly. He offered a tired smile and looked up at the witcher. “Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt nodded, waiting another moment by the door before sighing and walking over. He pulled up the second chair by the fireplace and sat down, gazing into the flames just as Regis was. Neither of them said another word for a long moment. And then Regis continued.

“Speak what is on your mind, my friend. The suspense is positively killing me.”

Geralt uttered a short laugh.

“Nothing to say.”

Regis arched a brow at that and faced him.

“Really? Forgive me but I find that rather hard to believe.”

Geralt shrugged his shoulders.

“I thought about it,” he said simply, “when I carried you out of there. I was angry… but angry at myself.” Regis looked like he was set to interrupt and Geralt quickly continued: “it’s stupid of me to say that, yeah. But that’s why there’s nothing to say. Because you know as well as I do that anything I _would_ have said to get you out of there just wouldn’t’ve worked. You’re too damn stubborn.” He chuckled. Regis smiled, looking down at the carpet under his feet.

“When I have good cause to be,” he added softly. Geralt nodded.

“You always did have an overdeveloped sense of empathy.” When he saw that Regis’ features had hardened, he placed a hand on the vampire’s shoulder. “I never doubted for a second that you’d come through. So, no. I’m not upset with you.”

A long silence passed, and Regis nodded. Then he sighed, tilted his head back against the chair and turned his eyes to the ceiling, watching the flames dance in chaotic shadows above.

“You have no idea what it’s like, Geralt,” he began slowly, “to feel a vampire’s thirst. In a way I have always been envious of you for that. Your definition of thirst is… something altogether unfathomable for someone like me. It is not just a mere fleeting urge, like the savouring of a glass of wine and thinking that it is good. It is like a curse… a euphoria that is all-consuming. It is a sweetness that cannot possibly be defined when blood touches the tongue, and a raging fire that burns within from the inside out when there is nothing left. And more often than not, it is a constant struggle between both.” He swallowed thickly and closed his eyes.

“Tearing myself away from that was the hardest choice I have ever made in my life, one that almost killed me, for I was convinced I was dying. It took centuries for me to rein in my fury, my desperation…” He tilted his head and looked at Geralt, and he dipped his thumb against the witcher’s lips, tracing the chapped skin with a tenderness that made Geralt shiver. “I’m grateful that you were there, my love. Because I wouldn’t have been able to have held back. The smell of blood causes only a mere flare of interest, an insignificant spark that can easily be ignored, but the taste, to have human blood on my tongue again… oh, the _taste_ …” He offered a dry laugh. “There. You can say that you have now inadvertently saved an entire city just by your mere humble presence in the midst of a vampire’s bloodlust.”

Geralt frowned.

“Regis, you wouldn’t’ve—”

“I wouldn’t have what, Geralt?” He questioned, and dark amusement was in his eyes. “Barged into the city, tearing throats and drinking the blood of virgins and infants and sucking them dry? Because I can assure you I most certainly would have. And have done so, in my less than reputable youth.”

Geralt fell silent, and Regis smiled knowingly. He sighed again and straightened in his chair, dropping his thumb from Geralt’s lips and moving instead to trace the stubble on his chin.

“So I say once again: I am grateful, Geralt. More than you can possibly know.”

Geralt watched him, keeping eye contact even as he pressed his lips to the corner of Regis’ hand that had now gone to cup his cheek. The vampire’s smile softened, and the pained look in his eyes receded if only a little. Geralt felt that tug in his chest, that pull, that swelling surge of _feeling_ hit him again, more violently than before. He sighed.

“Now, I believe you had something else you wanted to tell me? Something that would have best been saved for later?” Regis asked gently, stroking his hands through the loose white strands of Geralt’s hair and delighting in their smooth touch once again. He saw the few strands by his cheek that had been cut off in the fight with Gortag’s bandits, and he tried his best to quell the surge of anger that threatened to blossom within his heart. There had been too many near misses in that fight; too many times where he hadn’t been able to reach Geralt as quickly as he should have, so many of the bandits there that there were. He should have been at Geralt’s side from start to finish. He loathed himself for it. Almost as much as he loathed his slip of control, of coming so close to turning on Geralt... 

Geralt stood, the action momentarily dragging Regis from his perilous thoughts. He turned his back on him.

“Geralt?” Regis followed suit, standing and reaching out to place a careful hand on his shoulder. The second he made contact Geralt had spun around, pushing him against the nearby wall. He barely had time to register as rough lips seized his own, Geralt hungrily swallowing the surprised moan that filtered from Regis’ throat.

He recovered quickly and closed his eyes, his lips pressing against Geralt’s own and drinking him in, each slide, each caress of mouth on mouth a burning fire that he hoped would never be put out. He felt Geralt raise a hand and cup his cheek, his other hand sliding tightly down around his hip, pulling him closer to the witcher’s body to leave no space between them. Regis threaded his hands through those soft white locks, cupping his long fingers against either side of Geralt’s neck. He willingly pressed himself closer still, urged on by the kiss and the rapid heartbeat that pounded in Geralt’s chest.

The kiss soon broke, Geralt panting softly as he bowed his forehead against Regis’ brow, his lips moistened from the heated exchange and taking on a tantalising reddish hue. Regis looked at him closely, watched those slitted pupils dilate and contract, as if to somehow reflect the struggle within Geralt’s mind that the vampire knew was raging deep within. He knew what Geralt wanted to say, but he was by no means going to force him. So he was surprised when Geralt pressed his lips back to Regis’ mouth, his touch so gentle that Regis almost missed the silent words mouthed into his kiss. Regis’ eyes flew open and he pulled away, just enough to whisper:

“What?”

Geralt kissed him again. And again. He groaned, both hands sliding down now to grip at Regis’ hips. He too pulled back, and this time there was nothing in his eyes that stopped him from finally saying it.

“I love you, Regis.”

The vampire looked at him; simply let his eyes run over him and study him for a long time. But Geralt didn’t miss the relief in those dark eyes, didn’t fail to see the tender smile that curved his lips. Didn’t miss the way those hands cupped his cheeks. And he didn’t mind the lightness in his mind, in his heart, feeling the weight, the ache in his chest finally recede. Perhaps for good.

“Waited too long to say that, I think,” he added, now somewhat sheepish. Regis’ smile slowly widened.

“Not at all.”

He crushed his lips to Geralt’s in a kiss that took the witcher’s breath away, and Geralt eagerly reciprocated with mouth and tongue. Hands roamed down chests, arms and thighs, and moans were swallowed as tongues slowly slid together with each touch of mouth, each kiss betraying a gentleness that both men would not be thought of having at first glance. Regis slowly pushed Geralt back, his hands splayed on his chest and sliding under the thin shirt the man wore, pressing against his bare skin and inciting an excited twitch of muscle in response. Geralt let him, savouring each kiss, each touch, each gentle slide of that mouth that now moved down towards his chin, kissing with slow reverence down the arch of his neck. Geralt’s head fell back and he sighed, shrugging his shirt off as Regis pulled back to help him, and he grinned when the vampire ghosted his gentle lips upon his chest and the scars that marred it.

Then he paused a moment, dug his hands tighter into his bare hips and span him around, Regis now pushing Geralt up against that wall they had just moved away from. Geralt blinked in surprise but smiled, lazily arching his back to curve into the vampire’s body and meeting the slow, indulgent kiss that was awarded him. Then Regis laughed softly, cupping Geralt’s cheek once more and tracing the corner of his scars with his thumb, gazing into the witcher’s eyes with such affection that Geralt felt his breath hitch once more.

“Oh, Geralt,” he whispered, pressing closer to his lover and delighting in the hand that wrapped around his hips, “how do you do it? You have this ceaseless ability to not only calm a vampire in the midst of a blood-driven rage, but render him utterly speechless with such beautiful words.”

“That your sophisticated way of saying you love me, too?” Geralt quipped back, kissing the inner palm of Regis’ hand. Regis smiled again, but soon grew serious. His eyes held a sombreness that momentarily gave Geralt pause.

“I do,” he said, quite calmly, quite seriously. “Geralt, you cannot possibly begin to imagine…” He trailed off, staring at the witcher before him and capturing his lips in a kiss that bled all his thoughts, all his feelings into one desperate bid for Geralt to understand. Thankfully Geralt did. And Regis smiled into that kiss, pulling back as he did so, guiding Geralt with small tugs backwards. Geralt didn’t bother to look where they were going, trusting that Regis wouldn’t lead him astray. He cupped that pale cheek and indulged himself in that kiss that could almost last a lifetime for him, tasting all the more sweeter now that what they had to say had been said… tasting more intoxicating, more addictive than usual. Almost like it was their first kiss.

Regis stopped and Geralt opened his eyes, pulling back long enough to see why they had paused; the bed had hit the back of the vampire’s legs and Regis was eyeing him with amusement kindling in his black eyes. He sat down, Geralt chuckling and slipping his hands into the folds of Regis’ shirt. He tugged it upwards and pulled it off, throwing it onto the ground behind him. He sighed, savouring the feel of the vampire’s bare skin under his touch as with roaming hands he lowered himself over the vampire who licked at the corner of his mouth and sucked his bottom lip between his teeth.

He was gentle as he trailed his hand down, fluttering over smooth skin and sinewy muscle, coming to a rest at the belt of Regis’ breeches. Regis answered in a soft sigh, his head tilting back as Geralt lowered himself further on his lap, journeying down the vampire’s neck with soft licks and kisses that made Regis dig his free hand into the scars along Geralt’s spine. He raised his hips, smiling and glancing down, pressing an answering kiss to the crook of Geralt’s neck as the witcher pulled his pants just low enough to rest on his thighs, and he had to bite his lip to stifle the low, pleased groan that threatened to break free from his throat when a sword-calloused hand pressed against the slowly stirring hardness between his legs.

Geralt regarded him a moment, watching him, taking in every inch of this vampire before him; his closest friend, his lover… he swallowed thickly and his heart jumped within his chest. The one he realised he _loved_ … he moaned and met Regis halfway in another kiss, Geralt delighting in the delicious sounds he pulled from the vampire when they fell against the sheets, his hand beginning a slow, sensuous stroke of the rigid length he held trapped under his palm.

He didn’t do any more than that for a long while, so enraptured were they in the press of lips, the kisses that they passed back and forth, the warmth of their bodies so close together as naked chest pressed against naked chest. Geralt cupped Regis again through his smalls and Regis’ eyes fluttered, his head falling back against the pillow. The soft murmur of Geralt’s name almost undid the witcher completely. He could feel himself stirring, could feel the pull of arousal within him and he wanted to rut, to rub himself against and within his lover until he was spent and unable to move again.

But he also wanted something else.

He wanted to give. To care. To love.

It was dangerous territory he knew, for a witcher to love. But it was a line he was willing to cross.

He started at Regis’ neck, ghosting one slow kiss after another down that pale expanse of skin. He felt the hand on his back dig further in, and Geralt groaned in appreciation at the feel of those nails scraping against the sensitive curves of his spine. He smiled, resting both hands gently against Regis’ hips, his mouth travelling the light smattering of grey hairs there and journeying ever downwards towards his navel. Regis opened his eyes and watched him, confusion in his gaze until Geralt drew closer to a place that had the vampire sit up straight, swallowing thickly.

“Geralt?” He asked softly. Geralt pressed a slow kiss to his abdomen, tucking his fingers under the waistband of his smalls. He held Regis’ gaze, keeping his eyes locked on his lover as he slid down. His lips touched the outline of his clothed cock, pressing against the tip that even now was leaking clear fluid into the fabric covering him. Regis closed his eyes and moaned, head falling back and a hand coming up to clench in Geralt’s hair.

Pleasure snaked through his core, and a pleased hiss escaped his moistened lips.

“Geralt, you really don’t have to—”

“Regis,” Geralt interrupted him, cat eyes locking the vampire in place with their smouldering gaze, “I want to.”

Regis could feel his eyes glaze over, could feel that pleasure coil tight within his stomach and sink in like claws. He fell back against the pillow, stroking Geralt’s hair and nodding his understanding and acquiescence. Geralt uttered a pleased hum, and pressed another kiss to the tip of his lover’s clothed cock. He could smell him; could smell the musky sweetness of his arousal and he felt his loins stir in want. He licked his lips, sliding down the clothing that covered him from what he wanted and what he wanted to give.

He gazed at the purpling head, the beading tip dripping clear, viscous fluids. He moaned and pressed his lips to that length, darting his tongue out and tasting what was his. He heard a sharp intake of breath up above and he lifted his head to see Regis’ back arching off the bed, his hand clenching tighter within Geralt’s white hair and causing a pleasurable tug of pain to course down his spine. Geralt smiled, seeing those dark eyes hungry and loving and fixed on him and him alone, and he opened his mouth.

Regis watched, entranced, his hand stroking through that silken white hair as Geralt’s hot, wet mouth closed around him. He felt the heat course through him, felt himself buck his hips in need against the intoxicating sensation. He licked his lips, feeling his mouth grow dry. He whispered Geralt’s name like a litany of prayer, each gentle suck, each slow lowering of that mouth further down upon him rendering him void of all thought, of all feeling except the bliss of this moment.

He gently rocked his hips, unable to stop himself. Geralt swallowed the steady drip of fluids, kissing and flicking his tongue in time with each of Regis’ slow, gentle thrusts. The hand in his hair dug deep into his scalp and Geralt bucked against the bed below him, cursing for doing so immediately afterwards when bliss shot through him and he ground down against the sheets again; this was the one time where he wanted to give and not care about his own shameless need. Fortunately Regis did not seem to mind or even notice, and Geralt wanted to keep that vision, that sight of the vampire with head tilted sharply back, mouth open and panting, chest rising and falling with each roll of his body and buck of his hips as his cock disappeared into Geralt’s waiting mouth imprinted in his memory for all time.

He heard a low groan, could almost feel it tear from Regis’ chest and he knew that the vampire was close.

He dug his tongue eagerly down, pressing against his lover's slit and gathering the wetness there, swallowing it down his throat. Regis gasped, gritting his teeth and bucking sharply again. Geralt kissed and licked down the length of his pulsing member and Regis called his name. The witcher lifted his head and saw dark eyes glazed over with pleasure and he moaned deeply, wanting to watch. Another slow roll of Regis' hips, another brush of fingers through Geralt's hair and another soft call of the man's name when he swallowed and Regis came, both hands coming down now to clench in Geralt’s hair as his body jerked upwards and into him.

He panted, groaning softly and blinking, almost quite unable to believe that Geralt had gone so far as to please him in such a way, especially when the witcher lifted his head and wiped his mouth. The swallow of his throat made Regis lick his lips, and he was unable to mask the moan of want that his mouth uttered.

He looked up at him, cupping his cheek when Geralt climbed up his body, resting both hands on either side of Regis' neck to hover over him.

“I should thank you properly for that,” Regis murmured softly, casting a pointed glance down at the hardness so prominent between Geralt’s legs. He was surprised when Geralt shook his head, cupping his chin with one hand and tilting Regis’ head back up.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, and Regis could feel another tug of arousal coil within him at the hoarseness of Geralt’s voice. “Wanted to do it for you.”

Now Regis looked confused.

“Geralt?”

He was cut off by those wet lips meeting his own, and Regis was unable to stop the groan of approval that left him at the taste of himself upon Geralt’s mouth. He pulled Geralt down, hands running down his back, digging into marred pale skin and kissing with lazy indulgence. Geralt didn’t bother to answer his query, taken as he was with each slow kiss after each slow kiss, but Regis understood and didn’t need an explanation.

It was his way of apologising for what had transpired that day. For putting them both in danger and for the fight which had almost caused Regis to go over the edge. It was his way of atoning, for this and for how long it had taken him to realise his feelings, feelings which he had always borne, but had to meet on his own terms. Now those terms had been met, and Geralt wanted to give instead of take. And in doing so, it only further solidified the love that Regis had for this man. So he relaxed and allowed Geralt to take control, to let him settle down beside him that night and kiss him until the witcher needed to breathe, until his lungs were screaming for air.

And then Geralt would return to his mouth and drown in Regis’ lips all over again.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you must be made to [NorthSol](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthSol) for her constant invaluable support and help and for having the time and patience to check over the odd bits and pieces I threw her way to review! Thanks a lot <3

**III.**

 

The sunlight filtered through the small windows of the room that overlooked the trade quarters below, windows that were not thick enough to fully block the noise from the city centre. He opened his eyes to the sound of screaming. Blinking slowly and tracing his fingertips in idle dancing patterns down the scarred forearm of the man he had pressed to his chest, arms circled tightly around Geralt’s sleeping form, Regis laid his head against the pillow and listened.

The sudden bout of hysteria that had erupted seemingly within the blink of an eye came from the city gates. In his meditative state of rest during the course of the early hours of the morning, Regis had still been alert, and had still been focusing his attention on the whispered conversations of the guards, the fearful voices that issued orders back and forth to see to the brutal remains of the slaughter that had taken place in Elm. Now it seemed that things had come to a head; the wails of women and the angered cries of men rose in a commotion that was loud and clear, sowing more disquiet and panic among the citizens of Rivia.

It had all started with a young boy slipping past the guards at daybreak.

An inquisitive little lad, his curiosity had apparently gotten the best of him, Regis had heard a guard describe to his fellow guardsman as they stood on patrol by the trade district. He’d been meaning to go the lake to catch some fish for his family to break their fast that morn, but the patrolling of the soldiers by the lakeside had drawn his interest. Quick on his feet and nimble to boot, he’d effortlessly slipped past the guards undetected until he had happened upon the blood-soaked grass by the ruins of the non-human district. He’d screamed and alerted the guardsmen to his presence.

They could not keep him quiet. The boy was sent back home wailing and shaking, and soon the rest of the city had heard tell of the gruesome sight the lad had been subjected to. Regis sighed, feeling a sharp pang of frustration stab at his gut, frustration and the overwhelming annoyance at himself for being the cause of such slaughter. He closed his eyes, and for a moment envisioned the scene once more in his head. He had done something he had not done in a very long time; the hatred for those men had fuelled him, had driven him into a rage-driven haze as they cut off the head of a man with no hesitation, had killed people from the streets simply because they had desired it… and had flocked forwards like a rabid pack of wolves, swinging sword after sword and axe after axe upon Geralt, their strikes aimed to kill. And they almost would have – Regis had seen it, even though his sight was near stained red with the spray of blood that he himself had rained down – Greyneck Gortag, in his final desperate fight to win had pulled a knife and Geralt would have surely met its blade through his heart if not for the vampire’s intervention.

And then he had tasted blood, had come so close to almost sucking it eagerly down his parched throat when fangs met muscle, flesh and bone… and he had nearly lost himself completely. He shuddered, and he surmised that this is what it felt like to have one’s blood run cold. His heart gave a sluggish lurch and he swallowed thickly. Gazing back down now at Geralt he had to pause, take a breath and hold it as he watched the witcher’s chest rise and fall in his deep, peaceful slumber… he felt each rise of muscle against the palm of his hand where he had curled it now around his torso, felt the beat of his heart and the soft warm breaths upon his skin as Geralt breathed. Only then did he calm. Only then did he feel less hatred for the weakness he had showed, for what he had almost done. If it wasn’t for Geralt…

He sighed again. Lifting his hand from Geralt’s chest he stroked once more down the scarred muscle of his forearm, distracting himself from these dangerous thoughts of his by tracing the puckered flesh and marvelling at how many battles Geralt had lived through in his life. He threaded his free hand through the white strands of his hair, shifting a little so he was now resting on his elbow and gazing down at the man he loved. He felt a warmth replace the coldness in his chest at the memory of the night before – of how Geralt had decided the time was right to say what they had both known he had wanted to say since the very beginning. Regis whispered his name with reverence and pressed a kiss to the witcher’s lips, all the while wishing he could lie here and taste that kiss forever.

The soft moan he gave was of the utmost content, the deepest pleasure, as he leant back down and chased that warm mouth once more. And again after that. He had to stop himself, forcing himself to pull away from Geralt’s still-sleeping form, and took care to not disturb him as much as he was possibly able. He rose to stand, letting the covers fall away from his body as he spared another longing glance at the man before turning his head away at long last. Licking his lips and savouring the lingering essence of the witcher’s mouth, Regis strode to the window and looked outside.

The guards were pushing away townspeople who gathered in a noisome hub around the gates; whatever peace they had been trying to keep had evidently all been forgotten in favour of force. He observed as men’s shouts had turned into bodily blows, the scuffle causing women and children to cry out and curse the guards who dealt as well as they were given. The vampire shook his head solemnly. Such senseless displays of anger, though justifiable in their own way, often resulted in more harm being caused than not. It was simply a fact of life – and one that often left him with the unsettling sensation of not fully understanding _why_ , no matter how knowledgeable he deemed himself to be. Movement behind him distracted him from these anxious musings, and he turned his head only slightly to watch Geralt sit up, yawn softly, and stretch his arms above his head.

The witcher moved silently, his steps light on the floor as he crossed to the window where his lover was standing. His sword-calloused hands slipped down, alighting themselves in a tantalising hold upon the vampire’s hips as Geralt pressed the weight of his chest against Regis’ back. He leant in, ghosting his lips upon the vampire’s jaw, and Regis tilted his head to allow the witcher full access to his mouth that craved the kiss bestowed upon him.

“You think too much,” Geralt whispered against his lips, and Regis couldn’t fully stifle the weary chuckle that left him. He turned his head to once more gaze out into the town square.

“A particularly hard habit to break, I apologise,” he answered. “But given that I am so prone to favour discourse that is both excessively detailed and lengthy, there is simply no one else to converse with when the sole recipient of my ramblings is asleep. Thus I must make do with my own intellect.” He smiled when Geralt snorted in amusement.

“Been going on all night,” the witcher then sighed, nodding his head to the commotion down below. Regis hummed, his dark eyes shadowed with his earlier frustration and guilt that had surfaced once more. Geralt noticed and pulled away, only to lean his back against the wall in front of the vampire, his arms crossed over his chest. He watched him carefully and Regis calmly met his gaze with hardly a blink.

“I have the distinct impression that you wish to discuss something with me,” he stated quietly, the corner of his lips twitching into a wry smirk. Geralt didn’t smile. Rather, he looked concerned – or as concerned as he would claim his mutations allowed. Regis knew what was coming, and he loosened a long, heavy sigh. “Geralt… we have already talked about this—”

“No, we haven’t,” Geralt said softly, and Regis cast a weary glance at him, “you’re still bothered about last night, Regis. Don’t think I can’t tell.”

“Your powers of deduction are as astute as always.” Regis turned away from the window, searching for his shirt that had been thrown haphazardly onto the ground the previous night. He kept his back to the witcher, using the opportunity presented to him in doing so to carefully weigh his thoughts.

“Yes, Geralt. I am bothered. It is not the first time I have experienced thoughts as such after breaking my vow to stave off addiction. I think under the circumstances if our roles had been reversed, you would be doing the same.” He glanced at Geralt over his shoulder and slipped his shirt back on. Geralt nodded.

“Maybe. But I’m not mad at you. Told you that last night.”

Regis stared at him.

“Oh I truly do envy you,” he whispered. “To calmly stand there and offer such simple reassurances, as if it is the easiest thing in the world to you… Geralt, it is not about whether you are mad with me or not. It is about the risk that I posed to not only you, but those others around me – the entire _city_ , if you will. It is about me losing almost all control of my faculties in a mad surge of desperation, fury and bloodlust. I would rather live another few hundred years without bearing the wrath of humans once again, if you don't mind.”

Geralt shook his head, chuckling faintly at the vampire’s stubbornness. Regis grew still, uncertain as to what it was that the witcher had found so funny.

“Regis,” he began, and pushed away from the wall to approach him, “I know you. You honestly think I’d believe for even a second that you’d suddenly throw all your principles away just because some blood got spilt? I didn’t know you in your youth, true… but I know you _now_. Dunno about you but I for one don’t judge people on their past. It’s what they do with their future.”

Regis was silent for a long time. When he finally did speak, his voice was strained.

“My dearest witcher, spouting philosophy… oh I didn’t think I could ever find you any more enticing, Geralt. But here you go, exceeding all norms and expectations, as is your wont.”

Geralt drew up before him and simply smiled.

“I’m pretty good at that.”

Regis laughed shortly, shaking his head.

“That is becoming increasingly more apparent by the day.”

Geralt didn’t answer, and when Regis looked at him again he could see that infamous, sombre stare once more masking itself upon the witcher’s visage. He looked as if he wanted to add something to that, to further explain to him that he truly did have no issues or regrets about what had happened the previous night, but he didn’t. Geralt sighed.

“Said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m not in the habit of abandoning a friend in need.” He reached out, touching a hand to Regis’ cheek and cupping his pale jaw with his fingers. “Especially not you, Regis. We had no choice and they were asking for it. You only did what was right.”

Regis looked ready to argue, but he was cut off. 

“Regis,” Geralt’s tone grew sharp, and the vampire arched a brow at him, “I trust you more than I trust myself sometimes. Trust you with my _life_. I also know you can hate yourself as much as you want – been there myself plenty of times – but it doesn’t change the fact that nothing would’ve happened. You care too much for that. I saw you – you could’ve drank all that blood and lunged right at me but you didn’t. You fought it off, Regis. Wish it was only half as easy for me.”

And for once, Regis found that he couldn’t speak.

Seeing that he had consoled the vampire as much as he was able, Geralt took another step closer and pressed a kiss to Regis’ brow – a kiss that made Regis close his eyes and sigh softly. Chapped lips moved ever downwards, and soon the vampire found his lips pressed deeply against Geralt’s own. He fell into that kiss, each slide of mouth one that was slow, measured and tender in all its affection and reassurance. When Geralt pulled back Regis had tangled his hand into the loose strands of white hair that fell past the witcher’s shoulder, and he gazed at the man before him with a thoughtful expression.

“I appear to have taken a leaf from your book, my dear,” he murmured, and allowed a sheepish smile to cross his lips, “feeling doubt and concern which is needed unnecessarily. Whatever have I come to?”

Geralt chuckled.

“Dunno, but it’d do you good to let go of the responsibility for a bit and breathe.”

“Oh I shall be sure to do so. If I needed the full use of my lungs, that is.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, a gesture that made the vampire throw his head back and laugh heartily. He watched as Geralt then moved to pick his shirt from the ground, throwing it on much to Regis’ momentary disappointment as the scarred expanse of that pale chest became hidden from view. When Geralt turned around again, however, a noticeable look of uncertainty had flickered across his face, and Regis found himself growing tense in spite of it.  

“But having said that… need to lay a few ground rules down,” Geralt said quietly. Regis nodded, drawing his lips into a thin smile.

“As I very much suspected,” he sighed. “What are your terms?”

Geralt straightened out the sleeves of his shirt, making a note to avoid Regis’ gaze again before clearing his throat.

“Can’t obviously ask you to just up and run as soon as a fight breaks out,” he began slowly, measuring his words carefully, “but… we can’t have you—”

“Turn rabid in the midst of it only to endanger the one thing I aimed to protect?” Regis finished for him, crossing his arms over his chest. Geralt snapped his head back up and stared at him. The vampire smiled tiredly.

“I am not Dettlaff,” he said, sighing. Geralt shook his head.

“Didn’t mean that. I know you’re not,” he amended quickly, though the startled look in his eyes was still very much apparent. Regis apeared amused now, though a look of pain had entered his black eyes – a pain the witcher very much wanted to ease.

“Ah, you know… but do you truly understand?” Regis asked. “You know each higher vampire is utterly unique, in every sense of the word... so I would like to soothe your worries, my dearest witcher, by saying to you now that I will never, _ever_ , attain that level of fury and rabidity that Dettlaff came so very near to displaying to us both. As I've told you before, he is more bestial than I am. But instinct, on the other hand, is another matter entirely.”

“Instinct?” Geralt echoed, feeling a heavy weight of dread settle itself deep within his gut as he realised where this was going. Regis turned his back on him, the vampire exhaling softly as he studied his sharpened nails, clawing them into fists in front of him.

“Do you ask a panther why she lunges at you to defend her cubs? Or a bear why he attacks in warning to ward you from his territory?”

There was silence for a moment.

“Well, no… but—”

“Instinct, Geralt.” Regis looked at him over his shoulder. “Instinct. So my next question I pose to you is thus: how can you or I truly prevent a purely base, instinctual action that sees me act in the only way that side of me knows how when, in the enraged state that I was, a second’s delay was the difference between life and death for the sole person I care most about?”

Geralt had no answer to give. Regis smiled, knowing that he had won.

“You see? Therefore, no, Geralt. I cannot promise you that I will merely curb my actions. I have no control over them. The only thing I want above all else is to keep you from harm, otherwise… well. I fear that it might break me. Higher vampires are curiously emotional beings, as I am sure you are no doubt aware of.”

Geralt nodded slowly, feeling that dread settle further in his gut.

Another weary sigh followed from the vampire, and Regis strode back over to the witcher. Standing in front of him, he looked as if he wanted to reach out, to touch a hand to him and take comfort in the warmth Geralt’s body provided, but he didn’t. He looked into the man’s cat eyes and held his gaze.

“I cannot promise you,” he said again, but his voice had dropped into a whisper, Regis visibly swallowing thickly as he tried to finish, “but… I will try.”

Geralt blinked, tasting the tension in the air upon his tongue as he regarded the vampire before him. Slowly, he exhaled a shaken sigh. Then he shook his head.

“Can’t ask you to change for me, Regis,” he said. “It’d be… wrong.”

Regis nodded.

“Which makes me all the more sorry, Geralt. I didn’t want this any more than you did. But… I cannot stop myself. It appears we are at an impasse.”

Geralt shook his head again, taking a step closer.

“Don’t be sorry. All we can do is… make sure that if this happens again, you can pull through like you did last night. Not gonna leave your side.”

Regis smiled, an expression of the utmost relief entering his dark eyes though he still looked uncertain, discomforted by all that had transpired and all that he had been about to do if it wasn’t for Geralt and his presence. He had come to rely upon the witcher far greater than he had at first realised. He reached down to grasp Geralt’s hand and clutch it tightly in a gesture of gratitude. Geralt returned the squeeze of the vampire’s hand, raising Regis’ fingers to his lips to impart a kiss to the pale skin, before offering a small smile of his own and turning his head.

“Soon as everything calms down in the square below we should grab some more supplies then head on our way,” the witcher said as he nodded towards the open window to further articulate his point. The streets still echoed with the loud arguments and shocked cries of the Rivian people. Regis nodded, making a point to not follow Geralt’s eyes down to the outside.

“And then to Novigrad?”

Geralt nodded.

“Then to Novigrad.”

They shared another look and then proceeded to gather the rest of their belongings and clothes, leaving their room a half hour later, fully dressed and prepared for the remainder of the journey ahead.

 

*

 

They had stayed far longer in the city than either of them had intended. It was nearing the lunch hour when their saddlebags had been refilled and various other provisions had been purchased from the bustling market stalls, the commotion at the city gates at long last being seen to and dispersed with the guardsmen’s final desperate efforts.

From the shade of the armourer’s shop, Geralt and Regis watched as one by one, armed men passed back and forth through the city gates carrying the bodies from the lakeside draped in white linen sheets. The crowd held back, women choking on sobs and turning to hide their faces in the necks of their husbands or brothers; mothers quickly hid their children’s eyes and whispered urgently for them to go elsewhere. The men murmured in low voices, talking of conspiracies and murder and the relief they felt that Greyneck Gortag finally got what he was owed. There was an intermingling sense of relief among the crowds that day, relief and a fear that someone new would only take his place.

Regis stayed silent and uttered not a word. Geralt stared at the bodies, his eyes narrowed with hatred and a rush of satisfaction at the hand the bandits had been dealt. He overheard the armourer talking with the owner of the butcher’s stall nearby; both men’s heads bowed and shoulders hunched together, they spoke of the inevitable arrival of Queen Meve following such gruesome slaughters and her royal duty to lead the overseeing of the memorials to the guardsmen who lost their lives in the fight. Geralt paid it no mind, fully intending to be rid of the city by the time she stepped foot across the gates.

The last of the bodies had been carried to the morgue when they deemed it fit to return to their horses, saddlebags laden with a fresh supply of victuals and armour and swords repaired and sharpened as much as the skill of the armourer and blacksmith allowed. It was by no means up to the standards of the grindstone and workbenches of Kaer Morhen or Corvo Bianco, or the flawless workmanship demonstrated by Lafargue in Beauclair, but it would suffice the rest of the journey until they met the lofty towers and fire-lit churches of Novigrad; at least, that was Geralt’s hope.

He was speaking with Regis about the remainder of their travels, both deciding that it would be quicker and more efficient for them to make for the western roads through the Mahakam mountain pass, when they turned their heads at the sound of footsteps fast approaching them. When Geralt saw the guardsman, he knew that what last scrap of luck he still possessed had at last run out.

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath, making sure that the guard was well within earshot whilst he did so. Regis pressed his lips together in a thin line of amusement, whereas the guard – who was puffing and panting under the heavy plates of his armour – cast the witcher a glare that would have been sharp enough to cut steel.

“Word for you, witcher,” the guard cleared his throat and spoke up in a gruff, harsh voice, “from the palace.”

Geralt felt his stomach drop.

“What is it?” He asked, not bothering to hide his distaste.

“You’s been ordered to meet Her Highness. Get moving.”

“That didn’t take long.” Geralt narrowed his eyes and cast a sidewards glance at Regis beside him, the vampire looking as visibly perturbed as the witcher felt. The guard, clearly not in the jesting mood, tightened his hand on the pommel of his sword in warning.

“Well, if that is the case then I believe we should see what the queen has to say,” Regis said quietly after a moment, clearing his throat and smiling pleasantly at the guard whose grip slackened on his sword at the vampire’s words. He ignored the look on Geralt’s face for the moment, only bothering to speak to him once the guard had turned around and motioned for them to follow. “Geralt, we have to.”

“I know,” Geralt groused, “but I was hoping we’d avoid this.”

“As was I, my dear.” Regis offered a small, secretive smile, one that was sympathetic and worked to alleviate Geralt’s woes somewhat. The witcher sighed, shaking his head and he eased his steps, striding alongside the vampire through the close-knitted dusty streets of Rivia.

The walk was not a long one; the city, though crowded with people, was built closely around the red-roofed towers of the castle grounds. A considerably small castle compared to that of the royal palaces in Beauclair or Vizima, Geralt gazed upwards and took in the flags of the Rivian coat of arms fluttering above the gates in the gentle breeze. The two towers of the castle rose before them, the guards on duty standing straight and unmoving by the castle doors; built of brick and barren of all decoration, it was an ugly sight, much reflective of the state of the rest of the city. Meve had not often ventured to Rivia in these later years since the war, and thus it had suffered in its upkeep and the pride that it had once had.

Geralt found it difficult to imagine what pride the city could have possibly believed itself to have had given the long history of racial tensions within its walls, but he knew that now was not the time to think of such things. Especially seeing as the castle doors had swung open to admit them, the pair being cast none-too hospitable glances by the soldiers who saw them in.

The sound of the city and the wailing of the townsfolk died out behind them the moment those oaken doors swung closed, the guards barring them in place with a thud so loud that it was almost as if the very walls around them shook with the force of it. A darkness loomed in the hall; what little natural light was let in by the narrow windows above the entrance was blocked by the thick swirls of dust that floated through the rays of sunlight shining down upon the cobbled floors. A coldness chilled the bone through even thick layers of clothing, and Geralt found an inadvertent shiver had coursed down his spine. The guard who had come to them with the message stopped in the midst of the high ceilinged hall, standing beside a suit of armour that had been propped in-between the narrow niches of the walls.

“How long’re we meant to wait here for?” Geralt asked him irritably, dismissing any thought of formality. Out the corner of his eye he saw Regis stride to the suit of armour and lean in, the vampire appearing to content himself with inspecting the antiquity of it. The guard shrugged.

“Until Her Highness gets here at sundown. You’re not to leave the castle till she does.”

“Great,” Geralt muttered under his breath, his words going unheard by all save Regis. The vampire straightened himself up and looked back at the guard.

“If we are to be here for such a considerable length of time, surely it wouldn’t be too much to request some refreshments whilst we await Her Highness’s presence?” The vampire asked, looking now at the guard and tilting his head in an inquisitive manner. The guard blinked slowly, staring from one to the other for a moment, clearly pondering the request. It was some time before he cleared his throat and gave a curt nod in response. He left, the sound of his armour clanking away as he noisily strode towards the directions of the castle kitchens.

Geralt released the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, the stagnant air finally seeming to freshen with these precious few minutes of freedom being afforded them.

“And now we have a moment to talk,” Regis smiled. “I must say the upkeep of this castle has been fairly lacking of late.” Casting another glance around at the dusty suit of armour and the rusted heraldry hanging above it, Regis strode outwards to the centre of the surrounding hall. Tapestries depicting various victories and battles across the northern lands hung from the walls, the fibres in the fabric faded and aged from time so that almost naught could be seen. The carpet which they were standing on was also faded, the dirt from their boots tracking fresh imprints into the pale red surface. “A more melancholy place I don’t think I have ever seen.”

“Right. Cemeteries must be luxury to you,” Geralt arched a brow, to which Regis chuckled lightly and merely offered an amused expression in agreement.

“Even the more unkempt and forgotten of cemeteries carry more character and charm to them than these stone walls around us.”

Though the vampire was jesting, Geralt was hard-pressed to disagree. He joined his lover in inspecting the weathered relics lining the niches, all the while chasing away the impatience he felt as best he could. He noted that they were alone; the guards apparently only saw fit to guard the outside of the castle, and because Meve had not yet entered the city there were no servants called forth to hurry their preparations for her arrival. Ultimately, it could only mean one thing: she was travelling incognito. He didn’t bother to suppress the groan that spilled from his throat.

Regis looked at him, knowing well the thoughts running through the witcher’s mind, and one look at his solemn face informed Geralt that he had not been the only one to reach that conclusion. The vampire reached out, touching his hand to Geralt’s chin and stroking his thumb soothingly through the wiry bristles of stubble he was met with. Any attempt Regis would have made to console him further however was thwarted by the sound of metal-plated footsteps returning once more, and no sooner had Regis dropped his hand had the guard who had just left them reappeared carrying a small silver tray laden with water and chunks of stale bread. The pitiful fare was not lost on either of them, but as they had not yet eaten since waking up that morning they took the bread without complaint.

Once more Geralt tried to entertain himself with harsh words directed at the guard – their captor, as he had taken to referring to the man as such in his mind – and once more he was interrupted by equally harsh reminders to wait for Queen Meve’s arrival. So he had resorted to pacing fitfully back and forth, feeling very much as if he was an animal trapped in a cage. He wanted to leave. He wanted to be far away from Rivia and safely on the way to Novigrad.

When the doors had finally swung open what felt like five torturous hours later, giving him his first breath of fresh air since walking into that prison of a castle earlier that afternoon, the feeling only intensified.

Especially when he saw the familiar face of someone he had hoped he would never have to see again.

Long, grey hair swept freely over her proud, rounded shoulders; her green eyes narrowed and pierced like cold, hard flames. The ugly scar that was her prize from the battle on the Yaruga cut across her stern, noble face, curling her lips into a permanent sneer but doing nothing to detract away from her violent beauty – merely instead serving to enhance it. Her guards surrounded the witcher and vampire on all sides, as the Queen of Lyria and Rivia shed her travelling gloves from her long, delicate fingers, passing them to the servant who rushed forwards to take them. The lad bowed, quickly stepping back as she strode past him.

“Geralt of Rivia,” she said, fixing her deathly cold glare upon the witcher, almost spitting out the name in her low voice that rang throughout the stone hall with a clarity like the tolling of a great bell. Geralt felt the soldiers close tighter around him. Regis stepped closer to his side.

Queen Meve either did not notice, or did not care.

“I have been awaiting this moment for a very long time.” 

 

*

 

“The years have not been kind to you, witcher.” The queen’s voice carried through the high ceilinged hall of the dimly lit war room her guards had showed them to, Meve’s cloak fluttering behind her with the speed of her steps as she led the way.

She stopped by the rosewood table, carved with intricate heraldic symbols and laden with maps and dusty scrolls of a time long past, and with a sharp click of her fingers to draw her servant to her attention she discarded her cloak, passing it to the man who had followed her eagerly like a dog followed sheep; with another subservient bow he retreated and stood out of sight, out of mind in the shadows of the room. Donned in well-worn travelling leathers, the queen nodded at the guardsmen who stood alongside the witcher and vampire, dismissing them from her presence.

They bowed, saluting and turning on their heels. As they left the heavy doors swung closed behind them. Meve elicited a long, weary sigh.

“Maybe so. But they’ve been kind to you,” Geralt replied, knowing that despite his earlier show of irritation, it would be a death sentence to invoke Meve’s wrath by speaking in tones anything less than courteous. As it was he was gauging her reaction carefully, only knowing far too well that she never forgot her grudges, nor was she the type to fully forgive them. Regis remained a thankful soothing presence by his side.

She laughed a short, dry laugh and locked him in place once more with her cold, piercing eyes.

“Yes, it had taken some time for me to fully regain clarity of speech thanks to that delightful souvenir imparted upon my face. Such crude scars, indicative of the crude hand that had wrought them.” She turned, facing her back to them as she stared out the stained glass windows behind the desk; the setting sun barely passed through the thick grime that plastered the multi-coloured windows.

“How is it you have ventured back to my city after all these years, Geralt of Rivia? I assume you know that in doing so it is a death sentence?”

Geralt looked at Regis, the vampire clearing his throat softly as he spoke for the witcher.

“With all due respect, Your Highness, we had merely been passing through the region and sought a place to overnight before we continued our travels.”

Meve turned and studied the vampire from the corner of her eye.

“My question was not addressed to you,” she answered slowly. “But now that you speak, I recognise your face. You were one of those few accompanying the witcher when the battle for the bridge had taken place.”

Regis bowed his head.

“Your memory is sharp and does you credit, Your Highness,” he said softly. “Yes, I was.”

Meve regarded him a moment longer and then nodded. She turned, facing the pair with her hands clasped firmly in front of her. The dim light that passed through the windows overhead shone upon her slender form and illuminated the queen as if she was the very sun itself. Shadows danced upon the walls as she moved – an ethereal presence that was almost ghostly in how they flickered with each step closer she took.

“And what of the others that followed you? I recall two: a young soldier and an archer.”

Geralt felt a thick lump form in his throat at the mention of Cahir and Milva, and he fell silent. Regis closed his eyes, saying nothing as he turned his head. Queen Meve eyed them carefully, her green eyes scrutinising the witcher and vampire with a sharpness that would rival a hawk’s. She nodded, understanding what was left unsaid and visibly slackening her posture.

“I see,” she uttered. “You have my condolences.”

Geralt forced a stiff nod.

“Thank you.”

She looked once more at him, but said nothing for a long time. It seemed to the witcher that for just a moment, the sharpness in her eyes had softened almost imperceptibly. But it was only for a moment. She strode away from them, turning her back once more on the two in front of her.

“My reports informed me prior to my arrival that you both had a part to play in the murders. I want you to tell me everything, and spare no details.” She turned her head ever so slightly; not enough for them to see her face, but enough to know that she was indeed focused intently upon them. “Do this and I may still spare your lives.”

Geralt and Regis looked at one another, and it was clear by their solemn expressions that neither particularly wanted to be the bearer of this news. But they had no choice. So Geralt spoke.

“We were contracted to find out what’d killed a man in the trade quarter,” the witcher began, watching Meve as the queen paced slowly to and fro in front of them. “He’d been poisoned.”

“I thought witchers dealt with matters of the unnatural, not poisons.”

“The case itself was unnatural at first. The poison was rare, dealt severe psychological trauma in him before he died after he stumbled into a necrophage den outside the city. Turned out he’d been a member of Greyneck Gortag’s band.” Geralt saw Meve pause in her steps, the queen turning her head sharply at the mention of the rogue’s name. Her scarred lips pressed into a thin line.

“I see. Continue.”

Geralt was about to mention that he had been planning on it, but he thought better of it at the last minute.

“He’d had Steffick brew the poison that made the man slit his own throat in a fit of hysteria. Steffick was later killed.”

“Good. Such poisons should never have surfaced within the city walls,” Meve said harshly. She looked at them, the light from the windows reflecting in her green eyes making them shine like emeralds. “What of the bandit? Greyneck Gortag has for too long been a stain upon Rivia – him and all his ilk.”

“He and his bandits were overwhelmed by the guards in Elm,” Regis concluded, being careful to leave their involvement out of it, “no one survived.”

“That is plain to see,” the queen said. “My guard have detailed to me the slaughter that lies outside the walls – like a beast had ripped them through, they had said.”

Regis’ fingers twitched behind his back, and Geralt stepped closer to his side. Meve was not looking at them and so she did not notice. It almost appeared as if she was relieved.

“A great threat has been ended. I shall ensure my soldiers get their full accolades at the memorial service,” she said, more to herself than to the two men before her. Her gaze then sharpened once more, and she fixed her shrewd eyes again upon them. “But your involvement in this entire affair still remains a vast mystery to me. Surely there is more to this than you merely being ‘contracted’ into discovering the poisoning?” Her gaze swept to Geralt, pinning him under her accusatory stare. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Gortag had killed someone else in the city – the herald by the gate,” Geralt quickly added, following Regis’ stead and making sure he kept their roles well out of the full story, “we learnt about it and the guards were told. They met Gortag after in Elm.”

“How did you learn of this?”

“Found the guard captain approaching us when we'd first left Steffick's house after questioning him about the poison. He took us to the morgue where the body was lying. Later it turned out that Gortag himself was posing as the captain. He revealed himself to the rest of the guards when they went to apprehend Steffick.”

The silence that followed was heavy and weighed thick in the musty air around them, but to Geralt’s surprise and growing suspicion the queen did not look perturbed by this news. Rather, she looked resigned.

“Seems to me there’s something _you’re_ not telling us, Your Majesty,” Geralt pressed at length, arching a brow as he studied her stern features carefully. Meve’s scarred lips twitched into a rueful grimace of a smile.

“There is indeed. Gortag was not posing. He _was_ the guard captain.”

Geralt felt confusion sweep over him, a confusion that soon found itself replaced by anger. He took a step forwards.

“What?” He ignored the hand that Regis had quickly placed upon his shoulder. Meve looked at him, her eyes unblinking.

“He was the guard captain here in Rivia,” she repeated. “I am not proud of it, but he was the best soldier we had. It was only after the first of the murders had made themselves known that I discovered his more… disreputable background.”

“How many men died before you figured it out?” Geralt said lowly, trying his hardest to keep his anger in check. Regis’ fingers dug tighter into his shoulder in warning. He didn’t care. Neither apparently did Meve, for she only shook her head.

“It had started off with a peasant from the outskirts of the city. The following two deaths were of a merchant and a bookkeeper. All three had ties to the criminal underworld that was Gortag’s circle of followers, so we had let it pass. Gortag himself had informed me of his intentions and his past.”

“Why the hell would he do that?”

Meve cast a disapproving glance at the witcher.

“To protect himself, of course. By that stage he had proven himself to my service and guardsmen – we could not let him go. In the few months he had taken the role the city itself had reached a level of safety and security within its walls that we had never seen before. What _could_ I do, witcher? Spread word of his wrongdoings and hope that someone better suited to best him would come along? We had no one. The battle with Nilfgaard proved that.” She sighed, closing her eyes and raising a delicate hand to lightly pinch the bridge of her nose in agitation.

“Half the men in the city and the guards were indebted to him, followed him. He was a natural born leader. But… he had to be stopped.”

“The herald had been passing on the message… said you’d wanted anyone who helped him to hang,” Geralt said quietly, not trusting himself to raise his voice to anything above a whisper. Meve inclined her head.

“We had a period of peace and quiet… but it was not to last. He was growing too proud, too confident in his role. He demanded money from the treasury and to take off with half of my guard in tow. I could not allow that to happen.”

“So you wanted him gone.”

“I did indeed. But even I did not expect him to resort once more to murder… we had all believed those days were behind him.”

When Regis dropped his hand and stepped up beside Geralt, the witcher saw a coldness in his eyes.

“I am sure you did,” he said quietly, drawing Meve’s attention on him, “but I believe you played the ultimate deciding factor in his swift change of heart.”

Meve narrowed her eyes.

“I find myself unappreciative of your tone,” she answered just as quietly. Regis offered a thin-lipped smile.

“My apologies then, Your Highness, but I merely thought it prudent to bring to your attention that before he met his end, Gortag had admitted freely that the promise of the reward for Geralt’s head had influenced his decisions greatly. In fact, he had carefully crafted the murders so that it would ensure we would be the only ones to investigate them. So I must ask you – exactly _how_ much were you prepared to offer?” He masked it well, but Geralt knew that the vampire was furious. His smile was strained, and a tightness had entered his gentle voice. He wanted to reach out as the vampire had done to him, to place a hand on his shoulder and draw him back, but any attempt at doing so was thwarted. Meve had answered him.

“Twelve hundred crowns.”

Geralt froze. Regis’ eyes slowly widened.

“Pretty generous,” Geralt muttered. He couldn’t remember a bounty that high sitting upon his head before. Regis exhaled a sharp breath and shook his head, turning away. Geralt again wanted to reach out to him, but again he couldn’t – locked in place as he was by the swirling torrent of vengeful emotion that had gripped him. He narrowed his eyes at Queen Meve, and her green eyed stare matched him with ease.

“It is a serious offence to abandon the service of one’s suzerain,” she said quietly. “The bounty should have been higher and the fate punishable by immediate death – but I saw the strength you held at the bridge on the Yaruga, and I saw how valiantly you defended our knights against the onslaught of Nilfgaard. I consider only a mere twelve hundred crowns a favour, master witcher. As I do the conversation we are having now when I would see you hang from the gallows instead.”

Geralt forced a curt nod, avoiding the sneer that so desperately wished to curl upon his lips.

“I appreciate it, Your Highness,” he answered stiffly. Meve waved the comment off, clearly not wishing to discuss the matter further.

“You have put me in a rather difficult position, Geralt of Rivia,” she continued, gazing back out of the grimy windows behind her. By the steadily lessening show of light through what could be seen of the glass, Geralt assumed it was approaching dusk. “Indeed, by returning to Rivia despite your dishonourable retreat from our forces, you appear to have saved us all once again. A curious habit of yours, I have noticed.”

“Witcher’s lot in life,” Geralt said, wondering what she was getting at. The queen tilted her head, chuckling lowly in the gloom.

“So it would appear. I am forced to stay my hand. I cannot so readily exact punishment upon those who tirelessly helped rid the city of a growing threat.”

Geralt couldn’t be sure, but he thought he had caught a glimpse of Regis breathing a soft sigh of relief beside him. It was almost enough to make him smile. Almost.

“Where are your travels taking you?”

He started at the question, Geralt not expecting any passing interest of the sort coming from the woman before him. He shared a glance with Regis, the vampire looking just as uncertain as he. Sensing however that Meve was still waiting for his response, Geralt cleared his throat and quickly answered.

“Novigrad.”

“A fair distance from here,” Meve replied, watching him. “I assume you mean to head westwards?”

“As much as we can,” Regis said, blinking. Meve nodded.

“I have been keeping a close eye on the Mahakam mountain passes – mainly for the benefit of my realm you understand, as we cannot be sure where the Nilfgaardians have fled to these days following the recent war. You should have no difficulty taking the mountain gap pass to Vizima. Northwards from there, however, I cannot say.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Geralt said at length and bowed with uncertainty before her, Regis following suit though with more grace and finesse than the witcher had bestowed.

“Thank _you_ , witcher,” Meve said quietly, waving a hand to dismiss them. She waited until they had turned their backs and walked towards the door before raising her voice again, her words cutting through the stifling air like a knife slicing through flesh. “A final word…”

Geralt and Regis stopped, glancing again at one another before turning. Meve eyed them with her stern, calculating gaze, her scarred lips pressed downwards into a sneer. Her eyes appeared to flash.

“Do not return to Rivia, if you value your lives. Next time I will not be so lenient.”

They nodded, fully intending to take that advice. When they left the castle they strode towards the stables, mounting their horses and surging them into a brisk canter past the city gates. The large oaken doors closed behind them with a hollow sound, the very earth beneath their horses’ hooves seeming to tremble with the weight of it.

They rode deep into the oncoming night, never once daring to look back.  

 

*

 

Temeria, once a proud and prosperous realm, was a shadow of its former self to Geralt’s eyes. Bearing the brunt of Nilfgaard’s invading forces in the recent war, he saw the defeated gazes in the eyes of the people who passed them by; the Temerian lilies may have flown freely from the doors of taverns, with shields bearing the blue and white of the realm’s colours lining the walls, but the black and gold of the Nilfgaardian sun never strayed too far from their sides.

The price of Radovid’s death meant a conquered land, yet another vassal state that the Empire had greedily swallowed in their seemingly endless quest for power and wealth. But to Emhyr’s credit, he had pulled out of Novigrad just as quickly as he had marched upon the city, his armies swiftly following suit now that their work had been finished and their goals had been met. He did not give the northern realms any time to mourn their losses, for their freedom had immediately been returned – if at the cost of offering military support and tribute to the Empire when required. A rather tempting deal and one that on the surface seemingly served to make Temeria stronger, considering the alternative.

Emhyr var Emreis had played a cunning and dangerous game, and he had won it with little to no resistance with the discord and fear that Radovid had sparked within his own people and his own realms in his madness. But Geralt knew the people too well; too long had he passed through all corners of the northern provinces and had seen the hatred, the uncertainty that the Black Ones had brought with them sowing such violent resistance through the towns and cities they pillaged. It was only a matter of time before Temeria would revolt once again.

Passing through the upper valleys of the Ismena River after their week long journey through the Mahakam mountain pass, the small town of Carreras was one such place where Geralt could see the full extent of such hatred. He and Regis had only stopped there for the night, neither feeling entirely keen on spending any more time there than necessary after the sight that they had been greeted with upon approaching the town’s walls; a veteran soldier from the war had returned home only to find the hands of Nilfgaard were still clutching and squeezing the land for all that it was worth. A brawl had opened in the middle of the streets, the soldier roaring drunken profanities and threatening to cut the heads off of those who had dared hang the black and gold beside the blue and white in the tavern.

They knew that they should not have intervened, but that did not stop them from trying. Unfortunately they had made it too late – the witcher and vampire had only time to see three young lads, in their fear, trying desperately to calm the soldier down to explain to him that there was nothing he could do: Nilfgaard had taken Novigrad, and Temeria was now in debt to them. A push had become a shove, and in his drunken stupor the soldier had slipped and cracked his skull upon the stable walls. He’d died defending his last.

They’d left, then, after a quick rest and a bite to eat. Death was all around them – had chased them since they had left Toussaint – but matters of sovereignty and the desperation that reared itself like an ugly wild thing in the hearts of men and women all across the north were matters that a witcher and a higher vampire simply had no control over. There was nothing that they could have done, and it pained them all the more for it.

The one fortunate thing to have occurred from all this however was the ease within which they traversed the western highways that led towards the Temerian capital, Vizima’s walls in the horizon still standing proudly and largely unmolested from the onslaught of war. Meve’s reports had played in their favour, and Novigrad loomed closer than ever before. Another two weeks’ riding and they would at last come to the end of their journey – and with a small smile upon his lips, Geralt began to give thought to the preparations for the journeys that would soon follow that. It was a ridiculous thing to be happy about, he realised, but as he cast a fond look at the vampire beside him he found he had no cares for his blatant idiocy in this moment. A warmth had settled deep in his chest, residing permanently in his gut since his revelations the night before they had left Rivia, and it was a warmth that he could not have hated nor denied himself the pleasure of had he even remotely tried.

Regis blinked, no doubt sensing the other’s gaze upon him, and he turned his head to look back at Geralt from under the folds of his hood which he’d raised over his pale face. The skies had opened up around them, wetting the roads and their horses with a drizzle of fine precipitation, and from where he was sitting Geralt could see the silvery tracks of raindrops gently running down Regis’ cheeks. The vampire merely arched a brow but said nothing, his smile widening into that full-fanged grin that never failed to excite Geralt’s senses.

It was a moment of weakness, he knew, to give in like that. But he’d started to care less and less the longer they rode side by side, walking the Path together – just as he had no cares for who in the neighbouring villages saw them as he leaned over in his saddle and reached for the back of the vampire’s head. He met his lips in a kiss that Regis sighed softly into, and the answering grin was wide upon Geralt’s mouth when they parted, the capital city of Vizima rising before them along the rainswept banks of the lakeside.

 

*

 

“It has been some few months since you were last here, correct?”

Geralt nodded, sidestepping an elderly merchant pushing his cart of wares across the cobbled stone ground of Vizima’s bustling Temple Quarter. A quick glance into the assortment of baskets and cages of paraphernalia showed him that the merchant was arriving with donations for Saint Lebioda’s Hospital. The man grunted his appreciation of not being knocked into, and trundled along on his way.

“Yeah,” the witcher replied, leading the way through the steady thrum of people that crowded by the Miller’s Gate. The city had improved greatly over the years that had passed since he had first walked through its walls, and even now he could see that Vizima had become a city that was constantly changing. During Emhyr’s brief residence in the Royal Palace, he had endeavoured to repair all that had been destroyed in the scuffles between the Order of the Flaming Rose and the Scoia’tael that had almost burnt the city to the ground those few years prior, and to refurbish the ghettos of the non-human residence in Old Vizima once they had been cleansed of the remaining traces of the Catriona plague.

Even now, he saw the standards of Nilfgaard and Temeria flying as one above him, when only months past the black and gold lined every street and was tucked into every nook and cranny of the old city. The broken battlements that had been under construction on his last visit now stood proud and new, and the poverty that had once run so rampant in the old Temple Quarter appeared a memory of a distant past. He was not fooled by this illusion of prosperity, however. He had only to remember the soldier in Carreras to know what really went on in the minds of the men who lived here. But as it was, he deigned to show some sign of begrudging appreciation towards Emhyr’s actions, for the city streets were more pleasant to walk through in these later times.

Where once he had smelt the rancid burning of corpses as he strode through winding streets that closed in around him on all sides, now the aroma of freshly baked breads and floral perfumes from the city’s gardens assaulted his senses and bade him raise his head to breathe in deeply. The rain had also passed, much to his delight, and the sweet earthy scent of its fall upon the tilled earth outside the city’s streets refreshed him and invigorated his tired mind.

“Emhyr had called me back here as soon as he found out about Ciri,” Geralt explained, drawing out of his thoughts to see that Regis was silently watching him as they walked. “Been here a couple of times again after that with Uma in tow. The city’s not as depressing as it used to be, that’s for damn sure.” The vampire nodded in understanding, a hand coming down to grip lightly at the strap of his satchel as they strolled leisurely in amongst the crowds and shops. He’d heard that particular story about Uma and he was well aware of Vizima’s dark recent past, but now he took a moment to properly ponder his lover’s words.  

“You don’t often talk of your Cirilla these days,” the vampire mused, casting the witcher another glance. Geralt shrugged his shoulders.

“You never asked.”

Regis chuckled, turning away to stare at the gathering crowds and making note of the streets they passed.

“No, I confess I haven’t. In part it was because I never doubted you would find her safe and sound regardless the circumstances that befell her,” he admitted. Geralt smiled, casting another cursory glance up above at the Nilfgaard banners flying from the turrets of the clock tower in the middle of the small square they had happened upon, and for not the first time he felt a surge of smug satisfaction rise within him and coil comfortably around his heart at the knowledge that she was safe and far away from Emhyr’s clutches.

She had chosen the life of a witcher, and Geralt could not have been more proud of her. It was selfish for him to think so – of course it was – but with another quick flicker of his eyes back to the vampire beside him, Geralt knew that his selfishness often had merits and rewarded him in the best possible ways.

He would have laughed at himself then, if he wasn’t so wary of drawing further unwanted attention to himself.

_I’ve gotten old and lost my mind at the same damn time._

He was tempted to shake his head, feeling exasperated yet greatly amused at just how much his life had changed in such a seemingly short period of time. It was with even greater amusement that he felt his lips pull into a tighter smile, a thought dancing unbidden across his mind: _if only Ciri could see me now._

He chuckled at that, the sound drawing Regis’ attention to him again as the vampire arched a brow curiously. Geralt waved it off.

“Sorry. Just thinking.”

“Evidently.”

Geralt chuckled again, feeling lighter in mood than he had in ages. When he looked back at Regis he saw a warmth in the vampire’s eyes, his lover regarding him with that fondness of his that Geralt constantly found himself drawn to. He paused for a moment, gauging his thoughts as he wondered how best to proceed.

“Think if Ciri saw me now she’d laugh in my face.”

Regis smiled.

“Just laugh?” He grinned, seeing the look on Geralt’s face that he was awarded with. “Oh come now, Geralt… do you honestly believe that she would slight your honour in such a way?”

“Dunno. My honour’s kinda been all over the place lately,” Geralt remarked drily. Regis stepped closer to his side, using the opportunity provided in doing so to run his hand along the curve of Geralt’s spine, his fingers hidden from view by the cloak the witcher still wore. Geralt watched him, feeling the pressure of that hand upon his back and delighting in its touch.

“My dear, surely I do not have to remind you of all people that the girl you have raised as your own is a woman who exceeds expectations every day, with startling ease. She is exceptional, and exceptionally understanding.” Even as he spoke there was a distinct tightness in Regis’ voice, though his words were soft and his smile full of certainty. Geralt frowned.

“Sounds to me like you’re not so sure of that yourself,” he said quietly. Regis sighed.

“I apologise, Geralt.” He pressed his hand closer to Geralt’s back, as if this one small form of contact was enough to keep his thoughts grounded. Geralt knew it probably was. “Bygones and all that. Please, forget I said anything. I of course have the utmost faith in her and value her deeply.”

“Something happened, didn’t it? Something you’re not telling me,” Geralt probed, knowing by the way Regis’ shoulders tensed that he had hit close to home. Regis gave a curt nod after a long moment, staring at the witcher as if contemplating how much he should say.

“I have not seen her since… well. Since we made to rescue her from Vilgefortz’s clutches,” the vampire slowly admitted. He sighed, looking defeated. He dropped his hand back to his side. Geralt felt confusion claw at him, confusion and a familiar weight of dread once more gripping and gnawing at his stomach. “If I’m to be frank with you I did not leave an entirely favourable first impression.”

Geralt stopped in his tracks, ignoring the angry grunt of a man he’d almost blocked off when he’d been trying to get past him. He didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes clearly told Regis that he demanded an explanation for his friend’s cryptic words. Regis shook his head, his pale face looking drawn and fatigued.

“I take it then that she never told you?”

“No. So start telling me now,” Geralt replied, watching the vampire with narrowed eyes. There was no ire in his voice, but he’d be damned if he admitted to himself that there was a distinct growing fear rising in his tone. Regis looked away, visibly clenching his hands tightly by his sides.

“I got… somewhat carried away,” he whispered. “It haunts me still to this day. The last thing I wanted was to scare her when she was already in such a vulnerable position. But, alas… one thing had of course led to another, and before I had entirely regained full control of my faculties I had found myself… well… having a bit of a drink.”

Geralt’s eyes widened and Regis quickly cut him off.

“Not from Ciri,” he amended, and he looked sickened at the very thought of it, “never. Geralt I assure you I still had at least _that_ much sense left in me. It was one of those unfortunate souls whom Vilgefortz had left in charge to guard her. Nevertheless, that still does not ease my discomfort.”

Geralt watched him a moment longer, his expression strangely unreadable. For a moment Regis felt fear – a type of fear he had not experienced in a long, long time. Never before had the vampire found he could not _see_ what went on in those captivating cat-like eyes… and he felt his stomach drop because of it. He was about to speak, to try to repair what it was he had broken – his thoughts ran amok in his head and he tasted rejection, he tasted hatred upon his tongue and it was a bitterness that almost made him choke. He reached out, lifting a hand half-heartedly, falteringly, and a moan of desperation would have assuredly fallen from his lips if Geralt hadn’t said anything as he turned away. But he did.

Regis held his breath, feeling his fingers tremble in apprehension, in torturous uncertainty.

“If I didn’t know you any better Regis, I’d say you’re still trying to beat yourself over the head about what happened in Rivia.”

Regis blinked. That was decidedly not what he had been expecting to hear.

“I—”

Geralt looked at him, beginning to move in amongst the crowds once more. Regis was left speechless once again as he followed, drawn to the kind look in the witcher’s eyes, free from all accusation… hatred… that the vampire had thought he’d show. He wouldn’t have deserved any less. Geralt arched a brow at him, seeing the struggle in the vampire’s eyes, seeing how his lips appeared to part as if to speak but then quickly clamp shut – warring with himself in his own mind. He sighed softly. He knew the feeling well.

“When were you planning on telling me this?” He asked instead. The sound of his voice again seemed to jar Regis back into reality. He smiled a rueful smile, one that still bore pain in it. Geralt was the one to move his hand this time, settling it gently upon his lover’s shoulder and squeezing with silent reassurance. The vampire seemed to draw strength from that, for he exhaled a shaken breath and swallowed thickly.

“I was hoping I would never have to,” he admitted faintly. Geralt nodded again.

“So why’d you ask about Ciri?”

Regis blinked again, inwardly wondering what was going on in Geralt’s mind. He had been prepared to talk about this, to take full blame for his actions as he so rightly should, but then… he eyed the witcher carefully, feeling himself stumble upon his words. He found it ironic, really – a higher vampire feeling belittled by his own traitorous mind.

“Ah,” he sighed, smiling ruefully once more, “to apologise.”

Geralt didn’t fail to notice the short response, something so unusual for his friend who was rarely so taciturn. He knew that the vampire was troubled, and so didn’t blame him in the slightest. But it seemed to Regis that he should offer his lover something more substantial than that, so with a brief clearing of this throat, he continued.

“I have wanted to apologise since I let my conscience slip in such a loathsome manner. It was… almost reminiscent of what I had taken part in all those years ago. Hearing you mention her name again I must confess to you that I grew panicked, as curious to you as that may sound.” Regis refused to look at him, instead drawing his dark gaze over to the domes of Saint Lebioda’s Hospital, which they were now passing. Healers walked to and fro from its large wooden doors, and a small group of evidently now cured patients smiled and thanked them for their work as they took their first steps into the fresh, crisp air of the outside world after having spent who knows how long inside the hospital’s walls. It brought a melancholy look to the vampire’s eyes, yet another thing that Geralt did not fail to notice. “It is also the reason why I have stubbornly refused to ask you about her, despite wanting to desperately know how she fares. Embarrassment and shame has regrettably claimed me in my older age, and I’m not proud of it.”

The soft chuckle that sounded beside him caused Regis to snap his head around, eyeing Geralt with incredulity.

“Think you’re underestimating her more than I did,” he said. “She has a problem with you, believe me she’ll let you know.” Geralt’s smile soon dropped from his lips, and he frowned as his eyes glazed over in thought. “She only said the best of you when we got her out of there.”

Regis stopped in his tracks now, failing to heed the angry grunts and hisses of a woman and child who’d been walking behind him. His eyes had widened, as if he dared not put hope in what he was hearing.

“She… did?”

Geralt nodded.

“We all did.”

A silence followed. Regis lowered his gaze, fixing his attention upon the ground at his feet. He nodded solemnly, forcing a smile that, though pained, was sincere. Geralt stared at him, his lips pulling into a thin smile of his own before shaking his head, as if by doing so he could suddenly push away the memories of that fateful day. He nudged Regis in the shoulder, pointing at a nearby noticeboard that had been haphazardly placed upon a busy street corner. From where they were standing they could see the numerous notes plastered upon it, complete with crude drawings here and there denoting the more artistic abilities of some of the Viziman residents.

“Still a long journey ahead – about a two week ride from here to Novigrad. Running out of coin on the road isn’t gonna do us any favours so I’ll have a look at the board, see if anyone’s posted a contract. Dying to do something normal for once,” Geralt grinned, noting how the change in subject brought a noticeable relieved slump in Regis’ shoulders. The vampire nodded, spurring his feet into action once more as he resumed following the witcher through the throng of the crowd around them.

It was only when they had drawn nearer to the noticeboard by the shop window that Geralt suddenly reached out, closing his hand gently around Regis’ own and lowering his voice to a soft whisper – one that only the vampire could hear.

“No one’s perfect, Regis,” he said quietly, “not even you. You can’t spend your entire life worrying about some piss-poor decision you made in the heat of the moment, so promise me you’ll let it go. Lost you once before and I don’t wanna lose you again – especially not to this.” It hurt him to see how much Regis was affected by this; he’d been naïve enough to think that their final conversation in Rivia would have put an end to it all. Now, as he gazed at the vampire, Geralt tightened his hold on his hand and willed him to _listen_ , to _trust_ himself like Geralt trusted him. He would say it as many times as necessary, and he wouldn’t stop until Regis finally understood.

He’d caught a glimpse of an entry in his journal one night, when they had been seated in the inner crypt of Mère-Lachaiselongue. Geralt had been regaining his strength after downing the Resonance decoction, waiting for its disorienting effects to wear off. He was sitting down upon the makeshift mattress that Regis had long since laid there, and out of curiosity and as a means to look for something to do whilst the vampire cleaned the flasks and cauldron used to brew the potion, he’d seen an old, tattered book lying open upon the stone by his back.

Flicking through it, he’d found a page of scattered thoughts and deep musings written in the flawlessly neat, flowing script of his friend’s handwriting, and he couldn’t help himself. He had begun to read, Regis appearing oblivious to Geralt’s obvious invasion of his privacy. What the witcher saw there had made his chest hurt, his heart bleed. He saw a century’s worth of sorrow, of regret reach out for him from the centre of the page, as if the very words themselves ached for any form of contact to help ease their pain:

_I strive to live like a person, and it means that I have ceased to feel good among people as well as among my own. Maybe I made a big mistake._

Geralt had frozen, unaware of his fingers trembling in the hold they held around the journal. And when he had looked up he had seen Regis watching him, a sad smile upon his lips.

Gazing at the vampire now, the memory of that sorrowful event fresh in his mind, Geralt saw that same sadness in his lover’s eyes – Regis’ thoughts no doubt also returning to that day and that moment when Geralt had discovered that dark little secret he had kept hidden for so long, had kept hidden and had wanted to finally reveal to the one sole person he could trust with it.

“You can’t keep torturing yourself over this. I can’t watch you do it. Let it go,” Geralt urged again, quieter this time. He knew all about struggling to belong, and he didn’t want the same fate to be thrust upon those he cared for. Especially not him.  

He expected Regis to stay silent, or argue with him once again that he could not promise that, not this. He’d gone against his own word and had drunk blood and had come very close to doing so again, and to simply _forget_ about it was inconceivable, impossible. He’d scared Ciri, and he’d almost hurt Geralt. Who knew what would only happen next? He had said this in Rivia, and he would say it again until Geralt understood.

So what he didn’t expect was for Regis stare at him, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he ground his teeth behind his lips. He came to a decision. And he spoke.

“I promise.”

Geralt froze, just like he had when he had first read those haunting, pleading words upon that page. But Regis remained steadfast in his determination, and indeed it seemed that in merely saying those words he had been so hesitant to say before, he had lifted a great weight from his shoulders. The tension in his body waned, and he exhaled a slow, measured breath. “I promise I will do my very best, Geralt. You’re right. You’re always right.”

“Always?” Geralt blinked. His voice sounded faint, like he was standing far away. Regis nodded.

“More than you can possibly know.”

Any response he was planning to give he found had now utterly escaped him. On the inside, the witcher was battling with his thoughts, his emotions at how Regis had suddenly deigned to agree. Just like that. A question had formed on the tip of his tongue, but one look at the vampire and it died away just as quickly as it had risen to the surface. Regis wanted to do right, not only by himself, but by Geralt. He had made that promise. Geralt felt a warmth replace the uncertainty, and for the first time in a long time he felt that he no longer had to worry about his friend, even when there was no conceivable reason for him to do so in the first place. Once again, he cursed his mutations for not having done their job effectively. Regis smiled knowingly, tilting his head in the direction of the noticeboard.

“I daresay a contract is needed, wouldn’t you agree?”

Geralt did, and when he had finally willed his legs to move he had found the vampire standing in front of the noticeboard, a hand placed upon his chin and tapping thoughtfully as he scanned the papers pinned there. Some of them had varying degrees of legibility, and others could not be read at all. Geralt reached out and tugged down one notice that had crumpled together from the wind and rain, and smoothing out the crinkled lines he squinted at the smudged ink.

“Thank you, Geralt,” Regis whispered, and the witcher felt a warm hand close around his own. Geralt nodded, and he didn’t even try to hide his smile.

“Woman wants a dog to chase away her cheating husband,” Geralt read, his eyes crinkling with amusement as his smile steadily widened. Beside him Regis chuckled, the vampire once more returning to his more familiar, cheerful mood. Geralt tightened his hold around his hand. 

“Charming,” Regis mused, “but utterly dependent on how the dog has been trained, I fear. Otherwise I believe she may be sorely disappointed when her husband returns to find an excitable new four-legged friend that wants nothing but love and affection.”

“We’ll have to keep an eye on this one then,” Geralt noted. Regis nodded, lifting his free hand to pull down another notice that had caught his eye.

“A cure sought to prevent bad luck and ill omens,” he read, his expression once more turning morose, sombre. “Ah, the belief that such things can be treated with trinkets and medicinal herbs. I have always wondered about that – why do humans cling to the idea so?”

“Nothing else to cling onto,” Geralt shrugged in reply. “Lot of people here still live out in the villages around the city. Don’t have anything else to go on but the folktales of their ancestors.”

“Hm. And here, ‘goat’s blood needed in case of miscarriage.’ Oh dear. No, that won’t do at all.” Regis shook his head, pinning the note back where he had found it. “Has modern medicine only progressed so far?”

Geralt looked at him, regarding the vampire carefully.

“Thought you’d have gotten your fair share of this in Dillingen.” Regis looked at him.

“I did. But I was there to right the wrongs, if I may be so bold as to say. It merely… astonishes me how even in cities such as these, capitals of such widespread nations, highly primitive methods are still being sought.”

“Can’t save everyone, Regis,” Geralt said. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Regis had no answer to give. Geralt turned his attention back to the board, espying a note that was written on a fresh sheet of parchment, the script neat and considerably far easier to read than the rest. He frowned, running his finger under each word as he read, and he felt Regis lean in over his shoulder to have a closer look himself.

“Sounds rather promising,” Regis hummed, Geralt murmuring his agreement as he read it through once more.

“Woman went to the cemetery with her brother, heard some noises in the crypts, ran to safety… brother got left behind…” Geralt took the notice down, folding the paper neatly and slipping it within the folds of his armour. He turned to look back at Regis. “Wraiths, necrophages, or lesser vampires, gotta be.”

Regis arched a brow.

“I get the impression that these types of contracts are a fairly commonplace occurrence for a witcher of your most celebrated calibre.”   

Geralt barked a dry laugh and turned, beginning the trek towards the house listed in the note; the woman lived on the edge of the Temple Quarter, a bare few feet away from the gate that led into the upper class Trade Quarter. He felt the weight of his swords against his back and relished in the knowledge that if all went well he would soon be able to settle into what he did best. He craved the normality of a good, simple contract like those he had once known before being called away to Toussaint, and his coin purse eagerly awaited in anticipation.

The walk was a considerably long one despite the relatively small scale of the Temple Quarter; the steady influx of merchants returning to their shops and the construction sites erected and working to repair broken towers and buildings added to the hustle and bustle of this poorer district of the city, and oftentimes entire crowds would be stopped to let priests and surgeons pass as they made their daily rounds of the hospital square and garden.      

They walked in a companionable silence, breathing in the fresh air that brought with it the sweetness of the scent of more rainfall – indeed, looking into the sky they could see the swirling grey clouds that loomed ominously over the horizon, and Geralt knew that tonight would surely see the onset of a storm. The air felt charged, like lightning would surely tear through the sky in a matter of minutes. The people seemed not to care though, and people chattered and laughed around them, children screeching and crying boisterously as they darted in-between the legs of passers-by as they played their games.

When they stopped, Geralt had directed them to the front of a small townhouse that was entirely unassuming at first glance. The door was painted a dark shade of green that had started to fade and chip in places from age and erosion, and the rows of windows were off-centre and looked like they had just been scrubbed clean only recently. The second story clearly belonged to the upstairs tenants, given the common practice of letting rooms out for cheap rent for the unluckier citizens who otherwise would have been reduced to sleeping on the docks at night. A light was barely visible behind the closed curtains, and with a final glance at the vampire, Geralt raised his hand and knocked.

They heard the slow shuffling of footsteps within at the sound, and from behind the nearest curtain they saw a lone eye peek out and observe them a moment. The curtain fell back, and the footsteps drew nearer. A lock was slid back and the door opened with a long, low squeak of wood against rusted iron hinges.

“Can I help you?” The woman was middle-aged, her brown hair swept into a neat bun showing its first hints of grey. Flushes of red swept across her pale cheeks and thin nose, and the puffed redness of her eyes indicated that she had recently been crying. Her voice was raspy, thin, and Geralt and Regis looked at her in pity.

“Found your notice,” Geralt said softly, holding up the parchment that he had pulled from his pocket. “I’m a witcher. My friend and I might be able to look into this for you, find out what happened.”

The woman’s eyes dipped down and she nodded, her hand tightening around the door as if drawing strength from it.

“I see. Thank you, sirs,” she whispered, and stepped backwards to let them inside. “Please, come in. Such matters are not for speaking of outside.”

They were hard-pressed to disagree with her logic, and they followed her within as she drew the door to a close behind them. Her lodgings were quaint and plain, much like the plainness of the façade. The fireplace was not lit, but the smoky scent of ash and embers and the lingering warmth told them that it had been put out only recently. The walls were made of stone and were thus cold to the touch when they brushed past them; wooden chairs and tables and faded pictures in wooden frames comprised the décor of the living room they found themselves guided to. The stairs that led to the upstairs dwellings could be seen veering off to the left from the front door, and the lack of noise from above informed them that they were alone.

Extending her hand, she indicated for them to sit themselves down at the chairs before the fireplace. Two had already been laid out and settled there, as if she had received a visitor who had sat down with her and comforted her by the flickering light of the flames when they had been lit.

“Perhaps it would be better for you to sit instead?” Regis suggested softly, offering the woman a gentle smile, one that he was careful to hide his fangs behind. She shook her head, though she looked grateful at the suggestion.

“I thank you kindly, but I would prefer to stand. I have been sitting down for too long. I must clear my thoughts.”

Regis nodded his understanding and sat himself down when she gestured again for him to do so. They watched her, allowing the woman to speak in her own time as she drew in a breath and held it a moment. She lifted a small hand and wiped her eyes, and fumbled with the stained folds of her apron.

“I had almost given up hope,” she admitted, forcing a smile from her trembling lips as she affixed her eyes upon the witcher and the vampire. “It was three days past, and my notice had been hanging there ever since.” She trailed off, wiping her eyes again and drawing another breath. “Would you care for some refreshments?”

“No thanks,” Geralt declined gently, sitting back further in his seat. The woman nodded.

“The offer will still remain,” she said. Geralt inclined his head to her.

“Would you feel comfortable in telling us what happened?” Regis inquired, voice remaining gentle and soothing. She nodded again.

“I would. I have had my time to grieve and mourn.”

When she saw the brief glances the two had passed to each other at that comment, she let out a small laugh.

“Oh I have no doubts that my brother met his end,” she sighed. “The sound of his screams made that quite apparent to me. He was a headstrong man, and had been ever since we were children. Always wanting to protect me from danger – that was who he simply was.” She gazed into the dead fireplace, her reddened eyes regarding the blackened soot in the grate.

“We had gone into the cemetery to lay flowers at our father’s grave. We’d heard rumours that creatures walked among the crypts – the guards said it was because of the plague. Too many people have died in recent years and our graves are all but overflowing. But no one in the city had seen them as of yet, so… we thought it safe to pay our respects.” She sighed heavily once more, shaking her head. “Such a foolish decision, really.”

“You could not have possibly known,” Regis murmured. She smiled a saddened smile and looked at him.

“No, but that doesn’t make me think any less of it all.”

“There’re many creatures that haunt crypts – necrophages, most commonly. Drawn to the blood and decaying flesh. Lesser vampires are also likely,” Geralt explained, turning the woman’s attention on him. “What time did you enter the cemetery?”

“Just before dusk.”

Geralt nodded, his brows pulling together in thought.

“What happened when you got there?”

The woman glanced back at the fireplace.

“We’d walked through the gates and made for the crypt our father was interred in. A lonely place, it stands by the far eastern walls. He’d passed on from the plague some few months ago, and that crypt is reserved for… others who had met the same fate. I had brought flowers, whereas my brother had prepared to place down an amulet that our father had given him when he had come of age. It was a family heirloom, passed down from our great-grandfathers onto their sons. Ethan thought that it should pass back on to our father when he died. He never saw any use in it… he never planned to get married, start a family…”

She looked back at him.

“He had just made to place it down upon the grave when we had heard a… something like a low… hiss. I had never heard the likes before – it made my blood run cold. It was followed by a heavy thudding noise, as if something had landed upon the ground… Ethan cried out, pushed me away and told me to run back to the city… before I could look back I caught glimpse of a swift moving shadow… he screamed… oh he _screamed_. And I… I ran.” She closed her eyes, shaking her head and swallowing thickly. Regis stood up, remaining silent as he gently eased her onto the seat he had just vacated, the woman giving no objections this time as she sat down and placed her hands to her eyes.

She inhaled slowly, deeply, steadying her breath and eliciting a soft moan of despair. Regis placed a hand on her shoulder, kneeling down before her and casting a quick look at Geralt, silently telling him that they should hurry up and leave her to mourn her last. Geralt nodded.

“The amulet could help us in identifying your brother,” Geralt said quietly, watching the woman carefully and waiting to see if he should stop. To her credit she remained composed, and he continued. “Can you describe it?”

“It was a simple little thing: small, on a silver chain… it bore the mark of Lebioda,” she whispered, straightening herself in her chair and blinking away her pending tears. She tightened her hands in her apron, wringing the cloth into a tight knot that turned her knuckles white with the force of it. “Our family has always been religious.”

The witcher nodded again, making to stand. The woman hiccoughed and offered an apologetic smile, lifting her head as his sudden movement caught her attention.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I thought I’d finally come to terms with it all.”

“There is no need to apologise,” Regis said softly, standing himself and looking down at the woman who blinked at him. “It is entirely understandable. Grief is a curious and troublesome thing, utterly meddlesome in its own way and is something we all respond to differently.” He smiled again, and Geralt saw that the woman immediately grew at ease. “It’s only important that you come to terms when you and you alone feel the time is right, and not before.”

For the first time since meeting the woman and being invited into her home, she looked relieved. A small smile pulled at her pink lips, and gratitude swam clearly in her moist eyes. She nodded. And breathed a little easier.

“I regrettably don’t have much coin to give you,” she said as she stood, wiping a hand gently across her face as she cleared her throat. “But I promise you that I shall not hold back on all that I can spare. All I wish is to at last find out what killed my brother… and if possible, to help make sure this happens to no one else. I’ll do all I can.”

Geralt stared at her for a long moment, seeing the newfound strength in her gaze, in the way she held herself tall and proud. He found a liking for her almost instantly, and inwardly mused what life would be like if only all his contracts were given by people such as her. He admired her steadfastness – even through her grief – and he nodded.

“We’ll return soon.”

With another reassuring smile cast her way by Regis, the two then turned and left, opening the door and stepping out onto the busy street.

 

*

 

The last time he had walked among these graves, Geralt had been in a city that had been on the perilous edge of war – a war that, whilst small and had only spread through the inner districts, had still managed to spread its scars across the city and its people. It was evident in the melancholy cemetery grounds that they traversed, burial mounds and crypts and headstones here today that had not been here before the Order and the Scoia’tael had clashed violently in the middle of the streets and the spread of the Catriona had multiplied. Geralt was not surprised that monsters had lurked back into the shadows, making their homes once more among the dead; he knew when he had first been contracted here that it would only be a matter of time until they were drawn yet again, like they always were, to the luring promise of the freshly rotting meat that they so craved.

“I can see by the veritable distaste upon your lips that you aren’t very fond of our current location, Geralt,” Regis spoke up beside him, the vampire having been silently watching the witcher as they strode past headstones crudely carved and faded with age. Geralt snorted.

“Hate places like this.”

“Ah, a pity. If I had known that sooner I would have made sure to have chosen a different location for our rendezvous in Toussaint.”

He saw the smirk upon Regis’ lips and he sighed, allowing a soft chuckle at his lover’s attempts to lighten his mood. It had worked.

“Playing innocent doesn’t work on you,” he quipped, earning a wider smirk from the vampire whose fangs glistened slightly under his pale lips.

“And there is that debonair wit that I have truly missed over the past few days.”

Geralt didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t entirely able to fully mask the steady smile that pulled further at his lips in response. Regis, looking satisfied, turned his head to study the gardens of trees that lined the high brick walls. Dead, rotten boughs devoid of leaves, bark once a rich, earthen brown now grey and seemingly drained of all life… he narrowed his eyes, his smile quickly fading as he took in the sight. This was a cemetery that had seen the worst of life and of death, and the place reeked of misfortune and a looming evil that would have made even the vampire’s skin crawl. He shook his head.

“Ghastly,” he said, running his black eyes over the moss-eaten crypt doors and freshly churned soil lightly covering the burial mounds. Something had dug there recently. He could still smell the tell-tale stench of ghouls, devourers, and other rotting things. “I do not believe that even the city guard knows the great extent to which these monsters have made themselves at home here. To think that even now, people continue to refuse to burn their dead… the burials only exacerbate the spread of disease and draws all manner of creatures to their graves.” He looked troubled, a pain in Regis’ eyes that Geralt knew well. It was a look of despair that he himself had seen many a time in the years he had known his lover; the vampire was met with a problem that not even he could solve. It left him helpless, unable to act. It was torture, but of a completely different kind.

“Doesn’t help when people’re dying faster than they can get the pyres lit,” Geralt agreed, to which Regis gave a faint murmur of solemn agreement. The air grew chilled as they continued on, the clouds overhead growing darker with the pending storm that Geralt now realised he had correctly predicted. It would hit soon, and within less than a couple of hours. He sincerely wished to finish their business here before the sky broke.

They fell into silence once again, drawing ever closer to the lone crypt by the eastern walls that the woman had described to them. It had been built only recently, that was plain to see, for it indeed stood by itself in isolated quarantine, and the blocks of granite were piled carelessly one on top of the other in a vague approximation of stone walls meant to house the haunted necropolis deep below. They did not need to search for the tracks to indicate the woman’s flight from the catacombs – her footsteps were still imprinted strongly in the mud that caked the entrance which even now was still ajar, the wrought iron gates that shut the crypt off from the outside world lying swung clear open before them.

The musk of stale air laced with the tell-tale pungent aroma of decay was strong and assaulted their senses, and even with their sharp eyes and superhuman awareness their sight could only just barely penetrate through the thick blackness to see the first of the steps that rose to meet them from the beyond.

“Let’s get this over with,” Geralt muttered, casting one last wary glance up above at the sky. Regis followed suit, his lips pressing into a thin line as he nodded his head once in agreement before striding forth to lead the way down below. Each step he took was soon followed by a burst of illumination against the earthen walls, their shadows flickering in the orange glow of the candles around them that Geralt lit with a flick of his hand and a silent cast of Igni.

The stairs did not lead far down, and indeed they did not have to walk far until their feet hit solid ground once again. Rats scurried to and fro before them, squeaking in protest at the glare from the candles. Worms curled and writhed in the soil that had been dug up around cheaply crafted sarcophagi in their muddy niches, growing fat on the decomposing flesh and fluids, and the grotesque sight would have surely made lesser stomachs churn and heave violently. As it was, it was nothing that Geralt had not seen before, and ignoring the foul odour as best he could he paid no mind to it as he carefully picked his way across bones and rocks with Regis beside him.

“Something’s definitely down here,” the witcher said quietly, being sure to lower his voice so as not to let it echo down the labyrinthine tunnels that opened up before them. “Claw marks all over the coffins. Some of the lids have come off… whatever it was clearly tried to get at the bodies and succeeded a couple of times.”

“There are too many conflicting scents in here,” Regis added, his eyes darting to and fro carefully as they made their slow way forwards. “It would seem that more than one monster makes its lair within these walls. I noted much the same when we had first entered the cemetery.”

It had not escaped Geralt’s notice either, and looking down now at the lids of those sarcophagi that had been broken off in places and tilted askew, he noted at least two distinctly differing claw marks and teeth bites in the wood. He cussed aloud, inwardly wondering how that woman and her brother had even managed to come this far in the first place, let alone without being immediately cornered the very minute they had opened the gate to walk in. If the look on Regis’ face was anything to go by, he was also not the only one currently thinking the same.

They had only made it a few feet farther when Regis held a hand out, stopping them both in their tracks.

“I believe we’ve found our good lady’s missing brother,” he whispered. Geralt smiled grimly. A few feet ahead in the heavy darkness that had not yet been touched by the weak glow of the candlelight, they saw the faint outline of something solid slumped against the ground. It was also in that moment that they realised just what the exact source of the smell was that had greeted them upon entering the crypt.

“Shit,” Geralt hissed, grimacing against the foul rank that wafted from the remains of the body. He could see it now; his eyes having adjusted to the gloom a long time ago he had no trouble identifying which parts of the man were still intact… and which parts were not. “Sure am glad she didn’t want us to bring him back to her.”

Regis made no comment, the vampire instead slowly approaching, fully unable to hide the discomfort in his eyes as he too inspected what remained of the man who had so selflessly given his life to ensure that his sister made it to safety. He was torn apart, so thoroughly, so completely, that it left no doubt to either of their minds the type of monsters that were capable of such base depravity. His organs – or what little had remained untouched of them – lay strewn across the stone slab that housed the sarcophagus of the man’s father, and blood had coated the ground in a blackened pool of gore a little over three days old. They could not see his face, for he had no head.

A quick glance along the narrow tunnel and they found it some ten feet away, brain half eaten and the rest left to rot.

“Such a macabre sight… I truly do pity the man,” Regis said quietly and crouched down beside his lover when Geralt had stooped to further inspect the nightmarish scene. “I don’t believe any ghoul or devourer was capable of such… frenzied slaughter,” he intoned lowly, extending a hand to indicate the incisions of claw marks in what remained of part of the man’s left arm. “What do you say, Geralt? Would you agree with me that these wounds look regrettably familiar?”

He did. He’d had his suspicions the moment he had laid eyes on the body, and when he had seen the extent of the carnage he had been certain. 

“Vampire. Lesser,” Geralt muttered. Regis offered another thin smile.

“A garkain, to be exact.”

Geralt sighed. _Great._ He had only ever dealt with a few garkains in his career, but out of the entirety of those Post-Conjunction abominations that comprised the lesser vampire families, they were among the few that he dreaded the most. Not from fear, but from how malicious they were in their intent to attack, to kill, and to feed. Not merely content to drink only their victim’s blood, they shredded them to the very bone and feasted upon all they could devour – and corpses were not among the least of their unfortunate prey. And above all, they never strayed too far from others of their ilk.

“At this point I’d take a ghoul any day.”

Regis hummed his agreement, looking more sombre and aged beyond his years by the minute as he loosed a long, heavy sigh.

“As would I, my dear. Not least because I am only barely just as well-versed as you regarding these lesser brethren of mine.”

Geralt cast a curious glance at him. Regis noticed, and there was no jest in his eyes.

“Yes, as surprising to you as that may undoubtedly seem. No, Geralt, I have never made it a personal interest to delve into the studies of garkains, fleders, katakans or ekimmaras. Of course I know enough of them to accurately identify any and all of the lesser species – even to detect their habits and learn of each distinct marking they make as I have just demonstrated to you, but that does not change the fact that they bear no direct relation to my kind. Higher and lesser vampires are so overwhelmingly different from one another that you may even go so far as to say that we are almost entirely unrelated. Almost. The one shared characteristic here of course being something that you have become very well acquainted with from my struggles in the past.” He stood up, dusting off his robes as he tore his eyes away from the mutilated man before him.

“So I say again: I am only just as barely well-versed as you. I daresay you have the upper hand here.”

Geralt was silent a moment, considering Regis carefully. Despite the gravity of the situation he could not stop himself.

“Mean to say you _don’t_ know everything?”

Regis arched a brow.

“Spare me that delightful sarcasm a moment, Geralt. I never claimed I did otherwise.” Serious though his words were, it was not lost on Geralt how the vampire fought to keep anything remotely akin to amusement from his face. He didn’t respond though, allowing Regis to have this moment for himself as he merely bowed his head, hiding the growing grin on his lips as he did so.

He heard Regis sigh – though fondly – and as Geralt lifted his head once again he saw him shake his head and cast his eyes away, as if searching for something beyond the scene before them. Geralt was just about to question him when he saw Regis indicate to something over and beyond the witcher’s left shoulder. “And there lies the amulet this valiant young man was carrying.”

Geralt blinked and turned his head, following with his eyes where Regis was pointing. He saw the brief flicker of something silver in the blackness by the coffin, and he made to reach out to pocket it when he immediately froze.

“Do you hear that?” Regis whispered, eyes narrowing and body swiftly growing tense, alert, as Geralt silently straightened himself and quickly pressed his hand to the hilt of his silver sword.

“Yeah I hear it,” he muttered.

Another beat of silence passed and they heard it again; there, in the bowels of the tunnel’s darkness, a soft hiss cold be heard echoing through the cavernous walls. Indeed it was quiet enough to almost be completely silent to human ears, but it did not so easily fool the witcher and higher vampire who picked it up as loud and as clear as day. The hiss was a long, curdling whine, and resounded through the otherwise quiet crypt with menace and malevolent intent. Distinctive in its high-pitched sound, the garkain’s presence was unmistakable.

“It appears we have awoken it.” Regis narrowed his eyes, looking back at Geralt and drawing closer to his side. “Geralt, there is more than one.”

Geralt nodded.

“I know,” he said, having heard the lower, unsettling answering hiss that swiftly followed the one that had first broken the silence. They were calling to each other, drawn to the smell of fresh meat and the sound of voices in amongst the dead. He felt the muscles of his jaw clench. “Looks like we got ourselves an Alpha to deal with, too.”

“Today seems to be our lucky day, by all accounts,” Regis said, his expression set into one that was intent, focused. The hisses stopped, and one more beat of silence left them holding their breaths until they heard it – the sounds of sluggish, heavy footsteps ambling closer towards them. Though slow compared to their cousins and unable to run or grow invisible at the blinding speeds of their smaller, lither kin, it was with this very slowness and with their heavy-set bodies that the garkain proved most fatal. Geralt was only far too well aware of the strength and power in their limbs, of how they jumped their prey and tore into them with claws and fangs. Of how even a simple look at the grotesque, ugly thing that was their monstrous head could render one utterly immobile, utterly horror struck as their mind became assaulted with swirling, horrid visions that completely incapacitated them.

It was how the garkain lured and trapped their prey.

He remembered well Vesemir’s teachings, of how the old witcher had warned them time and time again that the garkain’s greatest weapon was its capacity to manipulate, to ensnare; a single look into those bottomless black eyes and it would lock a lesser man in place with a blast of mental energy that disoriented him completely until a time as when the vampire would descend upon him and indulge in its victorious bloodbath. 

“Wouldn’t happen to know how to ward ‘em off, would you?” Geralt asked, eyeing Regis and not even bothering to hide the groan that left him when those hisses turned into sharp, screeching roars. His ears echoed with the sounds, and he smelt them. The reek of death and blood was a powerful stimulant in that moment, and his sword gleamed by his side as he drew a deep breath and calmed himself, focused on the two towering shapes he could only just see forming in the near distance.

Regis pressed his lips tightly into a thin smile.

“If only, Geralt. If only. They would listen to me no more than they would listen to the tortured cries of their victims torn apart as they still live and breathe. No, I have no control over them.”

The heavy, shuffling steps grew louder. The hisses trailed off into deep, rasping growls. He could see them clearly now, giant, repulsive creatures – wicked looking fangs glistening in the darkness and claws twitching violently as those hairless, naked _things_ stopped in their tracks. He did not know what best to describe them as. Each time he saw them, they were increasingly more grotesque than the last.

“Never hurts to ask,” the witcher said calmly. He raised his sword, both hands grasping the comfort of its hilt as he positioned his body in a defensive stance. Eyes narrowed, vertical slits contracted, Geralt focused solely on them and them alone, muscles tense and limbs poised to move at the slightest provocation; one false step, one misread of their movements and it would be over. He heard Regis chuckle dully beside him. Geralt forced a smile, seeing those wide, black eyes of the garkain and its Alpha – easily identifiable by its taller stature and longer claws – contract and dilate in rapid movements. Their growls rumbled into loud, screaming roars, and then they dug their clawed feet into the earth and leapt.

He had been prepared for it. He had been prepared but still he could not keep up with the speed with which his lover moved.

A hiss so unlike the garkain’s chilling cry echoed in the air around, and the witcher saw a shadow of grey flicker before him. Regis reappeared from his incorporeal mist, claws extended and coated in thin rivulets of blackened blood. His black eyes were narrowed, his fangs were parted and bared, and Geralt did not fail to notice how he had purposely aimed for the Alpha first. The creature howled, writhing with claws pressed to its freely bleeding wounds, and its eyes darted frantically at the higher vampire before it. The lesser garkain beside it reared back in retaliation, but Regis paid it no mind for the Alpha had roared its fury and had lunged forwards, jaws snapping wildly as Regis led it further and further away from the witcher.  

He didn’t have any time to call out, to yell at Regis for his actions or warn him to be careful. Geralt knew it would be a quick fight.

His sword collided with the weight of the monstrous claw that swung at his face; the lesser garkain hissed sharply, settling itself for what it perceived as the more vulnerable target and Geralt could feel the rancid spittle that dripped from its piercing fangs splatter across his gloved hand. He groaned in disgust and grit his teeth, pushing back and parrying another swipe of claws, slicing through flesh. The vampire hissed, screeching and lumbering away from the burn of the silver blade, and Geralt was sure to raise his fingers in the Sign of Aard to stun the creature as he perceived its intent; the garkain momentarily pausing against the force of the shockwave that tilted it off-balance, Geralt safely bought himself enough time to avoid the tell-tale lowering of the garkain’s head as it had no doubt thought to fix him with its cold, bottomless eyes to force his mind and body to stutter and grow still.

Not even a witcher was entirely invulnerable to the hypnotic sway of a garkain’s gaze. He had learnt that the hard way, once.

His eyes burned with a dark satisfaction; he was in his element once more – he wasn’t dealing with twisted humans and their manipulative ways. It was only him and the monsters he had been bred to kill, and he revelled in it. He flexed his fingers, another Sign at the ready when the vampire hissed and shook its great, ugly head, and he pushed it back with all his force to knock it against the ground. He raised his arms, swinging his sword down to spear it through the garkain’s head as a flutter of grey once more appeared in the corners of his vision, Regis growling his anger as he appeared by his lover’s side and stabbed his claws through the lesser vampire’s heart. The garkain gurgled on its own blood, limbs flaying frantically and powerful legs kicking and striking out.

There was no time to stand on ceremony, no minute afforded to catch their breaths. The Alpha was upon them, the stench of its blood indicating that it was bleeding heavily from the wounds Regis had dealt it. Geralt spun his body around in a fluid, rhythmic curve – Regis lithely jumping and using the momentum granted to him to push off against the wall his feet had touched, both claws raised to catch the Alpha garkain once more off guard as he descended upon it from above.

Claws collided, fangs snapped and gnashed, and both higher and lesser vampire danced and lunged in a violent, animalistic display. The Alpha, slow though powerful in its blows, could not contest with the speed and accuracy of Regis’ strikes. It could not even defend against Geralt’s following thrusts and lunges of his silver sword. He felt the power within the beast, felt himself threatening to be pushed back by the sheer brutality of its dying attempts to cut, to maim, to latch its teeth around their necks and drink until it had had its fill. But it was not enough. It was outmatched, overwhelmed, and for all its power it was weak before the combined efforts of its attackers. Together they had reduced it to a limping, twitching husk of membranes by the time it had even uttered the strength to elicit a croaking, weakened howl, and with a nod of his head Regis allowed Geralt to do the honours and silence it once and for all.

It had been a quick fight. And it was over in less than a minute.

Geralt couldn’t have been happier; his heart was pumping and the blood pounded in his ears, every sense hyperaware down to the tingle in his fingers and the satisfactory burn of his muscles. He sheathed his sword after wiping the blade down, and with a soft groan he straightened himself and looked around.

“If I didn’t know any better, Geralt, I’d say you appear to have enjoyed yourself.” Geralt turned his head to look at Regis, the vampire dusting himself down and casting a cursory glance over the remains of the garkains they had effectively slaughtered. He looked calm, collected, and any questioning comment Geralt had originally been set to make after his lover’s wellbeing soon died on his tongue. He chuckled faintly.

“Prefer this to dealing with people.” He too joined Regis in eyeing the remains of the beasts. “Monsters’re much simpler.”

Regis offered no comment, but he nodded once. Then he tore his eyes away and sighed heavily. Geralt noticed this and paused where he stood, eyes slowly narrowing.

“Regis… you ok?”

Regis waved him off.

“I am fine, I assure you. I was merely pondering your words. I find myself agreeing wholeheartedly.” He laughed, a thoughtful gaze entering his dark eyes when he saw the incredulous look on Geralt’s face. He cleared his throat softly and continued: “It may not come as much of a surprise to you Geralt, but the human race is one which even the most seasoned of intelligent beings that walk this earth will never truly begin to fully understand – myself included. I shan’t go into any further details about this topic for I fear I have already talked your ear off about it many a time since we have known each other, but it is indeed far simpler to see a monster and know that a base instinct governs it, than to look at a human and try to guess what manner of thoughts and feelings rule their minds and actions. You truly are a highly complex species, and it continues to intrigue me so.”

He looked back down at the corpses before their feet and he indicated with his hand.

“Lesser vampires such as these mean as little to me as necrophages, draconids and all manner of other monsters mean to one such as yourself; they are all creatures ruled by a singular destructive compulsion to kill, and they are a danger to any and all around them. And in comparison to our misfortunes of late, to at last be able to undertake a contract such as this with no ulterior motive or instruction other than simply eradicating such a danger is something that is… somewhat of a relief, really.” He turned, facing Geralt once more. “So I agree. Monsters are indeed far simpler.”

Geralt watched him a moment longer. Then he shrugged, kneeling down by the corpse of the Alpha.

“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” he admitted. Regis drew level next to him, also kneeling down.

“I do so like to surprise you.”

Geralt’s lips quirked and he made to reach out with his hand but paused a moment – hovering it uncertainly over the garkain’s gaping maw. He frowned.

“Geralt?”

“I normally bring back a trophy after a contract,” he said at length, “but I’m not sure she’d wanna see this thing’s head…”

He sighed, a heavily contemplative look entering his cat eyes. Regis said nothing for a minute, merely watching as Geralt deliberated within himself the best course of action to take. He then drew the witcher’s attention to him by placing a hand lightly on his shoulder.

“There is no need, Geralt,” he said quietly. “Sometimes the last thing people need proof of is evidence of the one thing they fear above all. I believe it would be easier on her to receive her brother’s amulet, as she asked of us. Nothing more than that.”

Geralt nodded, showing that he had been thinking much the same himself. He stood, not bothering to dust himself down as he strode past the corpses in search of the silver chain that he had seen earlier on. Regis stood soon after and held back, watching and waiting for his lover as Geralt picked it up and pocketed the brother’s amulet.

“You go back up. I’ll burn the remains, check to see if anything else’s lying down here,” the witcher called to him over his shoulder. Regis inclined his head and turned his back, allowing one last look at Geralt before leaving him to his work.

Thankfully it did not take long; Geralt felt the emptiness, the quiet stillness of the crypt close around him the minute he was aware of his solitude deep below the earth. He found himself amused by it – he had never cared for it before, preferring to act by himself in all things. But Regis had once again proven that he could defy all expectations and make Geralt feel the unexplainable, the unthinkable. He shook his head, his smile growing fond, and he settled for distracting himself as much as he could from these traitorous thoughts.

The flames burnt high and scorched the putrid flesh and membrane to ash. He lowered his hand and then walked deeper into the bowels of the crypt. His search turned up nought, and Geralt concluded with a satisfied glance of his eyes and strain of his ears and the discovery of the rotten remains of three ghouls and an alghoul beside them that it had only been the two vampires that had made their homes within these tunnels after they had fought with the necrophages for their territory.

When he at last stepped out back into the daylight, Geralt let loose the heavy breath he had been holding. The fresh air was a sweetness to his lungs, and he breathed in deeply the earthy musk of the pending rainfall; the clouds had thickened, growing near black in their time underground, and he felt in his bones the thunder ripple and roll even as it cracked loud above and echoed with a fury through the sky. Dogs yelped and howled in the distance, and crows cawed and flew away overhead.

He saw Regis standing by the entrance to the crypt, leaning against the stone walls with his arms crossed over his chest. He had been keeping an eye on the sky, seemingly lost in his own thoughts when he had heard Geralt resurface. He met the witcher now with a small smile, his eyes soft as he pushed away from the wall and strode towards him to re-join him once more.         

“Shall we return?”

Geralt paused, glancing around the melancholy cemetery grounds. He shook his head.

“Not yet. You said there were more here.” He looked at the vampire. “Think we should deal with the rest of them first. The dead should be left in peace.”

Regis nodded, and something flickered in his eyes that Geralt momentarily could not place.

“A sentiment we both wholeheartedly share, my dear.” He held his gaze, and the look in his eyes had quickly been replaced with that familiar steadfast determination that all but made the witcher’s heart thud sluggishly inside the constricting confines of his chest. Regis seemed to notice this, for he smiled again.

“Lead the way.”

 

*

 

A timid hand rose to pull back the curtains to observe the ones who knocked upon her door, and with eyes widening in sharp recognition of her visitors, she dropped the curtain back in place and swung the door open to greet them.

“You’ve returned,” she said breathlessly, stepping aside to quickly invite Geralt and Regis within, her hands flying nervously to the hem of her apron which was now splattered with stains of dough and the smell of baked bread. “Please… tell me what happened. Did you… did you find him?” Her flour-coated fingers fell from her apron to clasp tightly in front of her. Her knuckles turned white against her already pale skin.

Geralt shared a brief look with the vampire, who offered the woman a sympathetic smile.

“We did. I would like to offer my deepest condolences, my dear lady… but it is as you feared. We did all we could to see your brother avenged,” Regis answered softly. The woman blinked, lowering her head and nodding. Geralt could not see her face properly, hidden as it was, but he thought he saw her bottom lip quiver and move – as if she was mouthing a silent prayer. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the amulet that her brother had intended to lay on their father’s grave, and the light from the candles lit within reflected off the solid craftsmanship.

“Here,” he said, stepping forward to hold it out to her. She raised her head, and as she lifted one hand to brush away the stray lock of brown hair that had fallen across her eyes, her lips parted to allow a slow, steadying breath.

“Thank you,” she whispered, blinking the pending tears from her eyes as she reached out with tentative hands and took the amulet that the witcher passed to her. She ran her thumb over the image of Lebioda engraved with such intricate craftsmanship into the silver, and she raised it to her lips, imparting a brief kiss to the prophet’s likeness. Geralt took a step back, standing side by side with Regis as he allowed the woman this moment to have some peace to herself. He felt the vampire brush his fingers gently across his own by his side, and Geralt held the hand that had sought his.

Presently the woman lifted her head, her sharp blue eyes now remarkably clear and seeming to brim with newfound determination and gratitude as she glanced at the two men before her.

“Thank you,” she said again, with more surety in her voice. “This means more to me than I can say. Ethan would have… he would have thanked you too, I’m sure of it.” She smiled, weakly now. “If only more were as kind and selfless as you.”

They did not answer, both witcher and vampire uncertain at how best to respond, taken off guard as they were. Seemingly aware of this the woman eased another small smile onto her lips and clutched the amulet tightly in her thin hands.

“I know it will not change things… but what was it that had taken him? What monster lurked in the shadows?”

“Garkains – lesser vampires,” Geralt said. The woman’s eyes steadily widened.

“There was more than one?”

Geralt nodded. She shook her head, her crestfallen visage now growing ever paler, and she softly drew her fingers across the amulet once more, taking comfort yet again in the touch of it.

“We got rid of ‘em,” Geralt continued, gauging her reaction carefully, “and the rest of the necrophages that made their homes in the cemetery. The plague had drawn them in,” he added, though in gentler tones. “Should be free to walk through there now.”

Wetness brimmed at the corner of the woman’s eyes; she did not cry, but it was apparent that his words had touched her deeply, and it seemed as if an unknown weight had lifted itself from her slumped shoulders. She drew up, proud, and smiled such a smile that Geralt didn’t think any man could possibly refuse her – so gentle and assured as she was.

“You did this? For all of us here in Vizima? Not even the guards had bothered, despite the rumours, the danger…”

“Witcher’s lot in life. Need to get rid of the threat before it spreads. The dead don’t deserve more torment after life.”

She looked at the witcher with a newfound light in her eyes, and Geralt questioned to himself if she had perhaps been one of the very many in the city who had heard the folktales of witchers and their infamous ways, and cursed them as much as the rest of the world when they saw them walk by. But he saw now, as he looked into her blue eyes, that that had not been the case. She appeared to be one of the very few exceptions. And he thanked her all the more for it.

“And… and of the body? Please, tell me what you did with Ethan.”

Geralt said nothing for a long moment.

“Had to burn his remains along with the rest of the corpses,” he said at length, and he didn’t fail to notice how the woman’s shoulders slumped. He felt a bitter taste in his mouth as he continued: “There was too much blood in the crypt where he was found. Smell would’ve drawn more monsters to the graves. I’m sorry.”

She shook her head.

“No, it was for the best,” she said quietly. “Truly, I’m thankful.” She paused, then continued in a gentler voice: “I thank you, witcher. I’ll go see to a memorial… and do my best to spread the word to the rest of the city. We should not allow ourselves to bury our dead so carelessly.”

Geralt nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement in the corner, and he was drawn to the sight of Regis who had been standing quietly off to one side as he observed the exchange. Once more he had an odd look in his eyes that Geralt could not place; it was much the same as the expression he had seen given him before they had left the crypt, and the witcher noticed that it was something that the vampire had only just barely been able to contain then, much the same as it was now. Any thought of questioning him on it was pushed to the back of his mind in that moment, however.

“I… don’t have much to give, as I said,” the woman continued, glancing at both Regis and Geralt now, “but you have both done more for me this day than anyone in this city has done for me in even a year. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for seeing my brother at peace, and your efforts to avenge his death…” She trailed off, as if having trouble continuing. “Here.”

She held out her hand, the amulet still clasped within it.

“I have no use for it now. But… it is valuable. I have no doubt anyone would be willing to buy it for a high price – higher than anything I could ever give you. Take it, please… take it as a token of my gratitude for you both. I will never forget what you’ve done.”

Regis watched as Geralt stepped forwards, the witcher’s hands outstretched to hover above the woman’s thin fingers. He watched and wondered as Geralt shook his head, closing his hands gently around hers to wrap them back around her amulet. He guided her hands back to her chest, and inclined his head in a short bow to her.

“Keep it,” he said quietly, and the woman’s eyes widened. “Don’t need any payment for this.”

Regis felt his heart beat sluggishly, felt that familiar sharp pang of warmth, of the utmost adoration for this man burn once again through his chest. Such an act of selfishness… indeed, Geralt may have often claimed that his emotions had been effectively dulled by his mutations, but Regis knew better. Far better. Just as he knew that he could no longer hide the emotion anymore from his face as he inhaled a short, silent breath. He was burning up – consumed swiftly from the inside out with the love that threatened to undo him, even as he had thought long ago that there was no possible way for him to feel any more bound to this man who had so unwittingly ensnared his heart from the very beginning. He had clearly been wrong. And he didn’t care in the slightest.

Geralt looked at him once more from the corner of his eyes, and something seemed to register in the witcher’s face; it was a look as if he now understood – or at least had begun to understand – what at last it was that he had been trying so hard to find in Regis’ eyes that afternoon. The vampire knew he’d become an open book in that moment, showing his heart on his sleeve like that with the heavy gaze he fixed upon Geralt, but he gave it no mind.   

Especially when his reward as they departed the woman’s lodgings soon after was the soft curl of the witcher’s lips upwards into that smile he could lose himself in.

 

*

 

The city greeted the storm with chaos. People dashed to and fro, trying to escape the downpour of the frigid pellets of rainfall that thundered upon the streets and rooftops. Lightning arced through the sky; a display of raw, unrestrained power that caused many an eye to warily watch in silent awe, and the thunder gave its voice to the air around, stirring the frantic barking of dogs and the screams of children who wept and clutched at their parents and friends.

They had barely made it towards the gate lining the entrance to the Trade Quarter when the rains had begun, and by the time they had found the warm lodgings of The New Narakort, they were soaked through to the bone – their travelling cloaks rendered useless against the harsh change in weather. Upon entering Geralt shook his head as he drew back his hood, ignoring the outbursts of a man loitering by the door as droplets of water from the witcher’s wet hair splattered across his face; he made a direct line towards the innkeeper behind the counter, nothing but a warm bath, hot meals and privacy in a clean room on his mind. Regis looked amused at the display, offering a small word of apology to the disgruntled patron as he too lowered his hood, and following his lover he drew up beside him just as Geralt received the room key from the innkeep who spared them not even another cursory glance as he grumbled something about where to find their food before returning his attention to the next customer.

They first took turns to bathe and wash away the muck and blood from the encounter in the cemetery, savouring the blissful warmth of the hot, soapy water, and they then returned to the inn’s main dining area to partake in an evening meal. They ate quickly, relishing in the succulent roast meats and strong ale the waitress served, but soon the need to retire to their room became overwhelming in the loud, stifling atmosphere around them.

They left behind them the roaring patrons, the drunken workers and the tittering noblemen and women as they ascended the stairs. By now the night had dragged on to late evening, but the storm continued. They could hear the thunder through the thick walls of the tavern and its upper floors, and it felt as if the glass windows they passed shook with each rumble from above. Another arc of lighting tore the sky asunder, and their faces shone pale in the wake of its light as they passed through the window-lined corridors towards this evening’s lodgings.

The room was located in the middle of the hall, on the left-hand side. The door opened smoothly inwards as Regis inserted the key, and they were left to stand there a moment, taking in the sight that met them. Certainly one of the more clean and well-furnished establishments they had stayed in so far on their journey, the room bore every indication that it was every inch the sort of luxury that was designed to accommodate the more aristocratic members of Viziman society; the tavern was often patronised by wealthier citizens, and it showed in the emerald hued curtains, the marble fireplace and the soft carpets lined in Zerrikanian furs that decorated the floor. The beds were neat and kept in pristine condition, and the windows overlooked the views of the Trade Quarter and the stately housing that lined the street the tavern was located in.

It was a veritable place of luxury, and indeed they would not have been able to have afforded to stay here the night if it wasn’t for their contract giver, the woman who, upon gratefully accepting Geralt’s offer for her to keep her brother’s amulet, had insisted they stay in The New Narakort and had informed them that the innkeeper was her uncle; the man had given them free lodgings, just as the woman had said he would after Geralt had informed him who they were and why they were there.     

Regis stopped by the door as soon as they entered, his expression calm and his thoughts collected as he merely watched Geralt stride in, taking in the room and all its grandeur. He smiled as the witcher offered a low whistle and shook his head. Regis locked the door behind him, his steps near silent as he now approached his lover, slowly slipping his travelling cloak and satchel off his shoulders and casting them neatly on the corner of the nearest bed as he did so. Geralt unstrapped his swords, meticulously laying them by the fireplace which he then lit with his hand, and any comment Geralt was set to make as he turned to face the vampire was lost as Regis placed a gentle hand to his cheek and surged forward, claiming his lips in a soft, searing kiss.

A surprised – but not displeased by any accounts – grunt from Geralt was immediately quelled when his eyes slid closed, a grin spreading wide on his mouth as he fell into that kiss. He sighed softly against Regis’ lips as his calloused hands slid downwards to grip at his waist; he felt the warmth of the vampire, felt how his thin frame fit and melded against him as Regis stepped closer, chest pressed firm to Geralt’s own and his long hands moving to thread through his hair and touch the back of his neck.

The kiss was slow, lazy, and utterly delectable as their mouths dipped and chased each other, and Geralt was unable to hold back the low groan of approval when Regis whispered his name and slithered the tip of his tongue past the witcher’s parted, chapped lips – dancing and darting it slowly against the warm, wet muscle he was greeted with from within. Geralt’s grip on his waist grew tighter, and he began a course of raising his hands along the curved ridge of Regis’ spine, feeling the expanse of his back and delighting in each subtle shift of muscle he could feel as the vampire smiled and pulled back, cupping Geralt’s chin with deft fingers.

“What was that for?” Geralt breathed when they parted, Regis having pressed one last lingering kiss to the man’s now reddened lips before contenting himself with toying with the loose strands of Geralt’s white hair. Regis smiled again, eyeing the way Geralt’s cat eyes blinked in a dazed fashion, and he almost groaned against the feel of those hands pressing tighter to his back, closing him further into the witcher’s embrace. He could feel Geralt’s body so close to his own, feel his heart pound erratically in the constraining cavity of his chest, and he could almost smell the slowly kindling desire burning within the man before him, taste it on his tongue. He licked his lips, savouring the kiss they had shared, and Regis’ fingers tightened reflexively again in Geralt’s hair.

Another rumble of thunder echoed in the sky outside. The rain pelted hard against the window, almost drowning out everything else save for their gentle breathing as they pressed their brows together and calmly held one another’s gazes.

“Oh, where could I possibly begin to start?” Regis answered, smile widening so as to show his fangs fully. Geralt’s heart lurched traitorously once again at the sight of that, and he knew once again that it was not lost on the vampire. He saw that same expression settle in Regis’ dark eyes, that same look that he had been greeted with in the crypt and in the woman’s house. He had begun to realise now what it was. And he loved Regis all the more for it.

“Allow me to try and answer, then, to the best of my ability.” Regis traced the contours of Geralt’s jaw, his eyes half-lidded as he fell into Geralt’s enrapturing golden gaze. His lips hovered mere inches from the witcher’s own, and it was a dire struggle on both their parts to not close that distance and drown in each other. The vampire slowly trailed his free hand down Geralt’s shoulder, alighting gently upon his hip, and he guided the man back a single step. Geralt arched a brow, perceiving his lover’s intentions, and all too happy to comply he pulled his hands back to unfasten his cloak and throw it carelessly to the ground. Regis smiled again at that, and Geralt grinned as he lowered his mouth to pepper small kisses along his lover’s jaw, hands flying up to thread in his hair and cup the back of his neck to pull him closer still.

Regis sighed, head tilting back at the feel of Geralt’s talented mouth upon his flesh. When he continued again he was not surprised in the slightest at the breathy quality his voice had taken, as tantalising as those lips were as they mapped down further still upon the curve of his neck.

“I do not think you fully understand, Geralt, how unique you truly are.” His grip tightened on Geralt’s hips, and he guided him another step back. “I do not think you fully understand how much it moves me to see such acts of compassion from your noble self.” He moaned freely, eyes slipping closed when Geralt hummed his husky approval of Regis’ praise, and he rewarded the vampire with a suggestive grip of his lower back and a sharp, quick grind of his hips upwards. Another step back was taken. The bed loomed closer still.

“Every day you surprise me, my dear, and every day you make it increasingly harder to not fall…”

He lifted his hands and cupped either side of Geralt’s face. He panted against his lips now, groaning against the insistent grinding of Geralt’s hips upon his own.

“Completely…”

Geralt met his mouth in a fervent kiss, breath intermingling with Regis’ own as the vampire gently laid the man back against the sheets, climbing atop the witcher’s body with a grace that left Geralt spellbound.

“And utterly…”

Regis pulled back, gritting his teeth and dropping his brow to Geralt’s own, all but forcing the man to gaze up into his black eyes darkened even more by something that was all-consuming, all intense… and entirely delicious. Geralt held his lover by the hips, wanting to watch those eyes and the emotions that bled out from them, wanted to watch them and memorise them completely for it took his breath away. Regis groaned again, seizing Geralt’s mouth with a hunger that only grew, insatiable as it was.

_“In love with you.”_

Geralt cussed, throwing his head back and groaning into Regis’ neck at the vampire’s hoarse admission. He felt rocked to the core – felt a flame burn him up and consume him in a wellspring of passion. He heard himself vaguely moan Regis’ name, but even then it sounded faint, far away to his ears, so hard it was to hear anything over the pounding of his blood and the excited thump of his heart.     

He felt the smile against his mouth, felt and tasted those lips once more upon him, drinking him up eagerly, and he fell into those kisses with an ardour that surprised even himself. He tightened his hands in the folds of Regis’ tunic, pushing the vampire further down so the full weight of him was pressed against him; Regis moaned lowly into Geralt’s mouth, answering the slow, tantalising buck of Geralt’s hips upwards with a teasing small grind of his own.

“Truly,” he whispered, softly taking Geralt’s bottom lip into his mouth and sucking lightly on the chapped flesh, “you do not possibly know how long I have yearned to give in…”

He soothed Geralt’s lips with another tender kiss, and he threw the witcher’s hair into disarray as he threaded his hands wildly through those soft, white locks. Geralt moaned, the sound low, deep, and enticing to Regis’ ears. And through it all, they could feel their need, felt it burning deep within them like snakes coiled to strike as another buck against each other’s hips caused swelling arousal to brush against swelling arousal.

“I cannot hold back anymore… forgive me, Geralt.”

“Nothing to forgive. Do it,” Geralt growled against his mouth, eyes rolling back at the pleasurable feel of thinly veiled fangs scraping again against his lips, and the friction against the swiftly growing hardness between his legs. He had been wanting this for a long time – and, like Regis, had warred with that yearning, wanting to wait until the time was right to give in and give all he could. He had the promise of it that night in Toussaint, when it had all begun. He had the taste of it that evening in Rivia, when he had broken down his walls and had at last indulged himself with the thoughts, the feelings that he had been keeping buried deep within for so long… and now, here, tonight, he wanted to give and be given, right here, right now. No more delays. Nothing between them.

He wanted it, wanted him. And he wanted it all.

To his surprise, however, he felt Regis freeze for a moment, and it was with confusion in his cat eyes as Geralt looked up, watching the vampire slowly raise himself to sit back gently against the witcher’s hips. His confusion soon gave way to understanding, however, when he saw the soft look in those dark eyes, saw the way his lover smiled so tenderly it felt as if the witcher’s very heart was set to burst. He cursed himself for those thoughts, but soon after thought better of it. It was inevitable now, after all. He had fallen. Completely. Utterly. He had fallen long ago.

Regis said nothing as he lifted his hands to slide them under the buckles of his tunic, deftly unclasping one after the after. Geralt sat back, ignoring the pang of disappointment at the distance now placed between them, and quickly made to do the same with the straps and belts of his armour. Lightning flashed through the windows, and as the rustle of clothing fell against the sheets Geralt felt his mouth grow dry at the image of Regis’ pale form illuminated briefly in the dimness of their room. He could not stop himself; he groaned, leaning in to run his hands down the expanse of that sinewy chest, resting his head at the vampire’s neck and laying waste to the warm flesh with kisses and hungered dips of his tongue. Regis sighed softly, a hand coming down to gently card through Geralt’s hair, all the while that same tender smile still upon his lips. He held Geralt to him, the heated, charged atmosphere in the room from before having now morphed into something much more subdued, but no less passionate.

Geralt raised his hips, allowing the vampire to ease his breeches off of him, and the witcher occupied himself in his wait by trailing his lips higher towards Regis’ jawline, relishing in each soft moan he pulled from his lover whose dark eyes fluttered and rolled back with each gentle nip and suck on his skin.

He felt the coolness of the air upon him, and it did nothing to alleviate the heat that pooled in his groin which stood proud and erect before them as Regis placed a hand upon the witcher’s chest and eased him back onto the sheets. Geralt licked his lips, suddenly feeling his throat grow parched, and he was unable to stop the moan of his lover’s name as he saw those black eyes roam in thorough appreciation over the expanse of his naked, bared body. But though he delighted in how Regis’ jaw visibly grew slack when his eyes fell to Geralt’s arousal, already dripping steadily in his excitement, he did not fail to notice how Regis’ own breeches remained firmly in place. He motioned with his hand for him to remove them, drawing Regis’ attention back to his face, and he grinned as the vampire huffed a quiet laugh and chastised him with a fond smile.

When he slid them down, it was with a familiar sharp hiss of breath and an equally familiar throb pulsing through his cock that Geralt finally found himself able to take in the entirety of Regis’ pale body, just as the vampire had so pointedly done to him. He grinned lazily, locking his legs slowly around his lover’s hips after making no small show of licking his lips in appreciation at the sight. Regis arched a brow, amused indeed at the display, but that amusement soon gave way to a low hiss of Geralt’s name when the witcher arched his spine, unable to stop the eager jerk of his body upwards when the vampire’s warm, long-fingered hand wrapped around the hot flesh of his lover’s prick.

Geralt’s eyes fluttered closed, the man unable to do anything save grunt and cuss sharply under his breath in the need to push upwards and rut into that touch that sent a fire running through him, but with a great deal of control he breathed deeply and relaxed his body and mind as much as he was physically able. Opening his eyes again he watched Regis, his eyes blinking slowly as he observed each flicker of emotion on that pale face. Dark eyes filled with need, with want, with a lust and love that almost felt raw echoed in the black depths of his gaze, and Geralt smiled, reaching up a hand to stroke it through the vampire’s grey locks. His smile only grew when Regis leant into his touch and pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand, all the while wrapping his fingers further around Geralt’s cock and starting a slow, steady stroke that earned him all manner of pleased noises that rumbled freely from the witcher’s chest.

He didn’t blink, even as each stroke caused Geralt’s hips to buck higher, higher – he didn’t want to miss a single second of the glorious sight that was before him. He imprinted it into his memory, locking it away to savour. Regis groaned softly, his hand now growing slick from the steady stream of fluids leaking down the tip of Geralt’s member, engorged and crossed with thick blue veins. He traced a finger over one of them, earning a roll of Geralt’s eyes back into his head and a low, hoarse cry of his name. Regis felt the sound go straight to his loins, and he cast a withering glance at his hardness as if by doing so he would hope that he would stay in control.

The thought amused him – control had flown out the window long ago, to disappear into the rain and the wind that shook the city outside – and he pressed a soft kiss to the inside of Geralt’s thigh, savouring the musky smell of him before straightening up to lean down, lifting his satchel with his free hand.

He rooted around in its contents, aware of Geralt’s eyes on him all the while, and he pulled out a small vial of a light oil he had prepared some time ago – one distilled of a small assortment of natural ingredients that he found most useful in soothing irritated skin after the harshness of a razor’s blade. It would also suit this particular purpose rather well.

“Sure you got enough?” Geralt muttered below him, and Regis bit the corner of his lip at hearing that hoarse, breathless slur in his lover’s voice. He then uncapped the vial, tipping some of the oil into his still slick hand. He knew there had not been enough of the oil to begin with, his supplies having run low as of late, but thankfully the excess fluid here would thicken it enough to suit the quantity he’d need.

“Regrettably I haven’t had the time to replenish my wares fully as of late,” Regis admitted, smiling at the amused grin on Geralt’s face as the witcher watched the vampire place a well-lubricated finger to his entrance. “But thank you for the reminder, my dear.”

Geralt chuckled, the sound soon trailing off into a pleased grunt as that long finger slid further still inside him, gently pumping with small, lazy thrusts that slowly eased him open. His hand tightened in Regis’ hair, as did his legs locked around the vampire’s waist, and Geralt could only rest his head back against the pillow and close his eyes against the sensation – another finger soon adding itself to his hot, clenching channel, and another finger soon after that.

His cock bobbed and swayed flat against his stomach, and when Regis reached down to give him a last, slow stroke after ensuring that Geralt was as prepared as he could possibly be, the witcher groaned and pulled his hand from Regis’ hair to instead cup the back of his neck, his golden eyes dark and pupils blown wide with desire, with want, with a need that left them both breathless. Regis swallowed thickly at the sight, leaning down over his lover now and tipping the last of the oil into the palm of his hand. The vampire groaned, eyes closing at the feel of his own hand on his cock as he pulled and slicked his weeping, aching length, and not even the thunder or the lightning outside could distract him as he lined himself up and pushed with great care inside his lover.

Simultaneous hisses and groans filled the room, not even loud enough to drown out the maelstrom outside, and Geralt felt his body ache, felt his cock stir and throb mercilessly in need the further Regis pushed within. It was ecstasy given form, given a shape to hold onto in the storm, and his legs locked tighter around Regis’ hips as he bucked upwards to help his lover sheathe himself fully to the hilt. Regis cussed quietly, something so unusual for him that Geralt almost forgot his pleasure in favour of laughing, but all that he could afford was a quiet huff before that too was silenced by the vampire leaning over him, hands lifting to clasp through Geralt’s so as to place them back against the pillow above his head. Fingers threading tightly together they held on, Regis panting softly as he dropped his head to dance his lips upon Geralt’s eagerly awaiting mouth.

“I love you.”

Geralt’s eyes slid closed at the admission, a smile spreading wide upon his lips. He tightened his hands around Regis’ own and answered his kiss with slow, deep slides of his mouth, even as Regis began to move and join their bodies as one. A shaken moan was swallowed by another kiss, and another after that as they writhed.

Regis was gentle, so gentle with him that Geralt managed another chuckle, feeling amused at the care even as his body burned with heat and his heart pounded unforgivingly in his ears. He didn’t know whether those sharp groans were his or Regis’ – perhaps they could have been both – and each slow rock, each loving thrust sent him spiralling down into a place where time seemed to all but stop. He lifted his hips again, sliding his body in time to meet each leisurely roll of Regis’ cock further inside his warmth, and Regis sucked upon his lips and moaned freely into Geralt’s mouth as the heat grew and consumed them in its loving caress.

Each kiss was a new admission of love. Every thrust urged a further gentle tightening of their hands. And when Geralt moaned lowly into his lover’s ear, his head burying in the crook of Regis’ neck when the vampire dropped his mouth to lay kiss after kiss down his neck and shoulder, he held him tightly and gasped as another slow, deep rock sent a surge of white-hot pleasure deep within his core. He whispered for him to do it again, to drive deep inside him in that way that had him arch up into his lover’s body, and Regis moaned his acquiescence and captured Geralt’s mouth in one unrelenting kiss as his hips gyrated and swayed.

Geralt grit his teeth, managing to open his eyes long enough to look at Regis when they parted mouths to allow the witcher to breathe; he could feel the tell-tale rush of warmth between his legs, could feel how each rock, each thrust brought him closer and closer to that blissful edge – that sweet release that he craved. Regis knew this too, for he smiled, and Geralt was pleased to note the dazed glaze in his eyes as the vampire reached one hand down to lightly enclose his fingers once more around the witcher’s straining cock.

Geralt’s head flew back against the pillow and he elicited a long, drawn-out groan. It wouldn’t be long now. His free hand dug deeply into the vampire’s back, clawing tenderly down pale skin, and he rose and fell under him with each frantic jerk into that warm hand. When he came, he swore and clenched his eyes tightly shut against the sensation, that indescribable feeling of chasing higher and higher until at last he could fall and drown in the passion that swept him away like the waters of high tide.

He heard his name whispered in breathless awe, and Geralt chuckled hoarsely as he blinked quickly and tried to regain his breath. He watched and felt as Regis clung to him, seeking out the last, slow bid for release as he thrust again. It didn’t take much longer, and Geralt growled his pleasure at the feel of Regis’ climax inside him, flooding his clenching muscles and coating him deep within. He shifted his legs, loosening the tight hold he had around his lover’s waist as Regis slumped over him, the vampire taking a steadying breath and eliciting a hoarse chuckle himself as he placed a last, tender kiss to Geralt’s mouth.

The storm continued to rage whilst they rested, Geralt sighing as Regis sat back to carefully pull out a brief moment later. He admired the light flush of red across the vampire’s usually pale face, and the small beads of sweat that coursed down his neck in a tantalising fashion. The witcher felt another dull stab of arousal hit him at the sight, but he willed it away. It had been a long day, a long afternoon, and he needed rest. He could tell that Regis had noticed his rekindled interest, however, by the amused look in his sated black eyes. He stood from the bed, Geralt folding his arms under the back of his head as he watched the vampire rifle around for something to clean them with. The flames from the fire cast his pale figure in a warm, orange glow, and Geralt contented himself with the satisfaction it brought him. When Regis returned, Geralt pulled the cloth from him and wiped first his lover down and then himself, throwing the damp towel away soon after in favour of pulling the vampire back down upon him.

Their kisses were lazy, languid and utterly sweet in the time they took to explore each other’s mouths, and in the minutes that followed their post-coital bliss Regis had made to slide in under the covers of the bed next to the witcher, his body a firm presence against him.

“Almost like you wanted me to still walk tomorrow morning,” Geralt mused, his voice still rough from exertion. Regis smiled, leaning up on an elbow next to Geralt and eyeing his lover as they locked eyes once more.

“Ah, but there are some distinct dangers in overindulging all at once, Geralt. You should know that as well as I do.”

Geralt chose not to answer, distracted as he was by the calm smile on Regis’ lips, his fangs only just visible in the dim light. He shrugged his shoulders, feigning nonchalance as he lifted a hand to cup Regis’ cheek. Holding his gaze, he leant in until their mouths barely brushed, so close but still the millimetres apart were far too large a distance for them both to bear. He struggled as it was to not dive forwards yet again, but he willed himself to stay calm – just long enough for him to say what was on the forefront of his mind.

“Don’t wanna let you go, Regis. Not now.”

Regis frowned slightly in confusion, though Geralt knew that the vampire by and large understood.

“Geralt?”

“Needed to say it. Now shut up and let me sleep. I’m old.” Geralt grinned, indulging himself with yet another press of his mouth to Regis’ own, before sighing and resting his head against the pillow. Though his senses were still alert and hyperaware from their lovemaking, the satisfaction he felt and the blissful peace that overcame him left his mind in a lull that only sleep would appease as it called to him like a siren's song. 

He saw the fond look in Regis’ eyes as the vampire stroked a hand through his hair, his fingers dancing lightly upon the exposed skin and muscle of Geralt’s arm. He laid down, his body wrapped firmly around the witcher’s own like a vice.

“I love you, too.”

Regis closed his eyes, not even bothering to hide his wide grin at Geralt’s whispered words before the man slipped into the clutches of a restful sleep.

 

*

 

There were surprisingly few patrons in the inn at that late morning hour, but Geralt did not think that it could have suited them any better. There were many tables to choose from as they searched for a place to sit, and they settled on a table out of the way in the far corner. A waitress barely able to stand straight on her own two feet and sporting a heavy fatigue that rimmed her eyes in dark circles approached them, and stifling a yawn she went back off to the kitchens to call for their order for breakfast.

The rain had thankfully abated somewhat, the storm front having at last moved on to sweep towards the south, and as he spared a cursory glance out the window Geralt frowned to think that their journey would be slowed down by the muddy roads that most assuredly lay ahead.

 _Nothing for it_ , he thought to himself, the prospect of their delay putting him in a dour mood, _roads’ll be difficult now._

It would put them almost a day behind the schedule he had planned out in his head for their arrival in Novigrad, and he did not particularly wish to stay in Vizima a moment longer than necessary. He had always hated the city, the presence of the Royal Palace doing nothing to assuage his convictions of the monarchies and their conspiring ways. The only thing that made it bearable was the company he was awarded – company that sometimes he did not think he truly deserved. Despite himself, his lips curled into a smile.

“I feel as if I should ask what it is that has suddenly so miraculously lightened your mood, Geralt.”

Geralt blinked, drawn out of his musings by the soft sound of Regis’ voice in front of him. He cast the vampire a look, Regis sitting back in his seat opposite the witcher and regarding him with thinly-veiled amusement.

“Why do I get the feeling you’d know the answer anyway?” Geralt countered. Regis chuckled, turning his head to join Geralt in gazing once more out the window beside them, a thoughtful glance upon his pale face as he observed townspeople and guards walk by in the streets.

“They carry themselves with a weight off their shoulders, have you noticed?” Regis said instead, indicating with a nod of his head two of the guardsmen who had paused slightly off-centre of the window’s viewpoint. Their heads were bowed together as they spoke, and they leant against their guisarmes with a noticeable looseness in their grip and their shoulders. “It would appear rumour of our actions in the cemetery yesterday have already circulated through the city. Or, your actions, I should more accurately say.” He looked back at Geralt, a softness in his eyes not unlike the same look Geralt had seen multiple times yesterday.

Geralt said nothing for a long while, instead turning to thank the waitress when she returned with their breakfast – an assortment of fruits and toasted breads with poached eggs and boiled vegetables. Despite himself his stomach flared in hunger at the sight and Geralt tucked in, first on the bread and some of the eggs, while Regis picked up a slice of apple and chewed it slowly.

“Don’t remember going it alone back there,” he grunted a minute later. Regis smiled.

“But it was your kindness and your actions the woman remembered, and I am almost certain it is because of that very compassion that she endeavoured so valiantly to inform the guard of the danger of those crypts. Indeed, as I have said to you I must say I was deeply moved at the sight of you yesterday. You are quick to cast aside your own selfishness on many occasions, Geralt. I don’t think you realise what it is that others so rightly see in you.”

“And you’re quick to step in the way the second things go pear-shaped.” Geralt looked up from his food, fixing Regis with a pointed stare that the vampire arched a brow in evident confusion to.

“I’m not certain I know what—”

“Can’t be a coincidence you jumping in the way of that Alpha in the crypt, Regis.”

Regis fell silent. He picked up another slice of apple and studied it in his hand, as if deciding whether or not he truly wanted to eat it. In the end he lifted it to his mouth, and chewed it even slower than before. Geralt’s eyes softened.

“Kinda curious about that. Have been all morning, considering you didn't give me a chance to ask you about it last night. What happened back there? Could have easily dispatched it myself, though I didn’t mind the help.”

Regis sighed.

“Capable as you really, _truly_ are, my dear, I fear that it was exactly that: _fear_ , which led me to act in such a way. To you it may have appeared as any normal creature ready to meet the silver of your blade, but I fear that the innate ability to truly _read_ such beasts was something not properly instilled in your Trials.” He smiled a weary smile, sitting back in his seat and casting a careful glance over at his lover, who had stopped eating a moment to narrow his eyes at Regis’ every word.

“Be a vampire to fight a vampire, that where you’re going with that?”

Regis pursed his lips together in a thin line.

“In a way. That monstrosity was old, Geralt. Very old. With all due respect, I do not think you saw the hunger in its eyes. I would rather you not become prey to those that you hunt, if you do not mind me saying so. I’d find it rather difficult to deal with, to say the least.”

Geralt picked up another roll of bread, tearing it apart in his hands before swallowing another mouthful. He saw some degree of truth in Regis’ words – it hadn’t entirely escaped his notice how the garkain’s jaws had predominantly been snapping towards _his_ neck, rather than Regis’ own. He shook his head.

“Fine.”

He could almost taste the uncertainty Regis was feeling at his blunt reply, and he was quick to wave it off. There was nothing he could say other than that, after all. Regis was no fool – quite the damn opposite – and Geralt knew better than anyone the risks one took at trying to stop a higher vampire when they had their sights set on something. Especially if that higher vampire was Regis. His lips pulled into a wry smirk.

He didn’t like it in the slightest, but for some reason Regis always managed to have things go his way.

“I know you abhor me putting myself in what you perceive as mindless danger, Geralt,” Regis continued softly after a moment, and Geralt looked back at him again. Those black eyes of his were soft, and ached with a hidden pain inside them that turned Geralt’s stomach. “But I cannot let anything happen to you. I simply _cannot_ , especially not now when… well. You understand, regardless.”

Geralt nodded. He did. Now more than ever.

“Gotta hear me out on one thing, though,” he said, which drew Regis’ attention quite sharply. Geralt also leant back in his seat, a hand slung lazily over the back of his chair. He grinned. “Can’t keep rushing in like that whenever you think something’s out to get me. Have to let me take one for the team sometimes, too.”

Regis stared at him, soon eliciting a dry chuckle and a heavy sigh. He shook his head, looking very amused indeed by Geralt’s chivalric request. He spread his hands wide in a placating gesture, and he allowed only the barest hint of his fangs to shine through in his smile.

“A famous monster slayer, vowing to protect my humble vampiric self from even the tiniest whiff of impending danger… well, when you provide an offer like that, how can I refuse? You have an astounding sense of virtue, my dear witcher.”

“That sarcasm I hear? From you, Regis?”

The vampire grinned wider.

“Absolutely not. I wouldn’t dream of demeaning your charming self in such a childish way.”

A silence fell, broken soon by their simultaneous fits of laughter. Chuckles gradually easing off, Regis smiled again and glanced once more out the window, not seeing fit to eat anything more for the time being. Geralt continued with his breakfast, clearing off his plate and feeling grateful for a full stomach once again.

Presently the vampire spoke again, though this time in a much lower, quieter tone.

“Yes, you truly do have an astounding sense of virtue, Geralt.”

Geralt smirked. 

"If getting fucked like that again is the reward I get, I'll be sure to be even more virtuous in the future."

Regis chuckled lightly, a rather satisfactory though fondly exasperated look now crossing his face. 

"You are incorrigible."

He saw the look Geralt gave him at that and Regis smiled again, though softly this time. He rose from his seat, indicating with his head the tavern’s front doors.

“Come. Novigrad awaits. The sunshine should have dried much of the mud and muck by now on the roads, and though we may still occasionally get stuck along the way it is far better than leaving in the late afternoon.”

Geralt shrugged, not finding any reason to disagree with the logic, and as he stood from his seat he felt the dull ache in his lower back and groaned almost imperceptibly at the satisfaction it brought him. The memories of last night flooded once again to the forefront of his mind and distracted him from all other troublesome thoughts for the time being as he strode away from the table, leaving a few coins upon the bench in payment for their meal.

If he saw the slow spread of a smile on Regis’ lips as he passed the vampire, those dark eyes of his gazing knowingly at Geralt’s face, the witcher chose not to answer. He merely chuckled, holding the door open for Regis as they departed, en route to leave the city.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

 

It was two weeks and three days by the witcher’s reckoning, as Geralt took a moment to idly pat Roach upon her neck, the mare placidly trotting along the dust-strewn roads. Two weeks and three days since they had begun that last stretch of their journey. He breathed in deeply, the air smelling crisp and sharp to his nose with the forest-strewn plains of the Novigrad region swelling around them, trailing off into the far-reaching Kestrel Mountains in the distant east.

They had been on the Path for a little over a month and a half, Toussaint a far memory that grew increasingly more so by the day in Geralt’s mind. Yet rather than feeling weary from such a journey, he looked around him and felt an increased vigour in his muscles, a rush of adrenaline that only grew when he saw the early morning sun glistening off the turrets and towers of the world’s largest city which loomed over the trees and villages before them.

A prominent landmark that could be seen from each corner of the region and the war-ravaged plains of Velen, it had guided them like a beacon the moment they had crossed the border. Now it appeared near enough to touch. They were close, so close.

“The place has changed considerably since I was last here.”

Geralt looked at Regis, arching a brow inquisitively at the vampire’s sudden comment. Regis was gazing at the lake-crossed hillocks and ancient forest canopies, his dark eyes soon alighting upon the towers of the Church of the Eternal Fire, the largest of towers which dominated the Novigrad skyline. Even from this distance, they could see the flames that burned high into the air day and night, a constant reminder to all of the faith that demanded the utter reverence and ceaseless following of everyone who lived in the shadows of the city walls.

“Yeah? What century was that?”

Regis chuckled, not bothering to rise to the fond jest in Geralt’s voice. He straightened himself in his saddle, Draakul tossing her head in enjoyment of the sunshine and the cool, crisp morning air.

“A very recent one, I assure you,” he smiled. “It must have been… oh, I can’t rightly recall. A hundred years ago, perhaps? Slightly more?”

Geralt whistled lowly, amused indeed. Regis’ smile grew, his fangs showing clearly in his grin as he did so.

“As I said, the place has changed since then.”

Geralt reined Roach in, drawing fully alongside Regis’ horse. He held the vampire’s gaze, his curiosity having gotten the better of him.

“What kind of changes?” He nodded over to the flaming towers of the city that even now could be seen much clearer ahead, the pair drawing closer to the inns and towns that were situated upon the banks of the river that cut Novigrad off from the mainland. Another hour and they would at last be within those walls. Regis hummed, a thoughtful expression entering his eyes.

“The settlements, predominantly,” he said at length, eyeing the huts and small gatherings of villages that dotted the rolling hillsides. “There were not as many here then as there are now. The city, too, was not as hidden away behind brick walls and drawbridges as you see it standing before you today. It used to be that many people could walk freely through at will, unrestrained – indicative of much happier times, I suppose.”

Geralt grunted pensively, lapsing into silence again for a moment as the road drew them steadily further towards the Seven Cats Inn. Over the gentle breeze he could hear the yowling of the many cats and kittens that roamed outside the busy tavern, and in-amongst the bustling of patrons and soldiers he could just discern the low mumbled gossiping from the owner’s wife and her mother as they sat down and plucked goose feathers side by side near the settlement gates.

“Hm. Judging by your incredibly glum mien I’d say that first and foremost, a good solid drink is in order.”

Geralt scoffed at the suggestion, but didn’t bother to argue the fact that the vampire was, once again, correct. He eyed the tavern they were approaching, feeling the empty pull of his stomach at the thought of something to fill it with, but he decided against it.

“Be better to wait until we hit The Chameleon,” he said, looking at Regis. “Get the feeling we’re gonna need all the alcohol we can get when Dandelion sees you’re still kicking.”

Regis chuckled lowly, inclining his head in agreement to Geralt’s suggestion.

“Ah, the exuberance of our young poet friend,” he mused. “I wonder if he ever managed to finish that book of his? ‘Half a Century of Poetry’, I believe he had entitled it.” He didn’t bother to hide the smirk on his pale lips when Geralt audibly groaned in distress.

“Tell you what. You can ask him all about it when we get there. Just make sure I’m drunk enough to pass out, first.”

Regis laughed, offering his lover a wink and a cheerful smile as he turned his attention back to the road ahead, their horses making their leisurely pace past the busy tavern that rose on both sides around them.

“I shall see to it, my dear.”  

All he got in response was another grunt that was soon interrupted by a fresh round of laughter, Geralt smiling back as he joined Regis in gazing up at the towering fortress of Novigrad’s walls.

Another forty minutes later saw them leave their horses at the stables, saddlebags unpacked and belongings gathered as they entered the looming arches of the Tretogor Gate.

 

*

 

The stern eyes of the guards followed them, assessing every inch of the travellers as both witcher and vampire strolled past and joined the fray of city dwellers that swarmed the streets. There were no more checkpoints, Emhyr having done away with them completely when he had taken over the city just as he had the city passes and much of the old Novigrad guard, but that did not stop the accusing stares and the warning shift of hands to sword pommels regardless.

Geralt ignored them, focusing instead on the sights, sounds and smells that were Novigrad.

He had not stepped foot in this city since before he had ventured to Toussaint, and now, having returned after all these months, he found that he had almost forgotten the vibrancy and energetic pulse of life that emanated from every street corner and sang from every stone. Rising houses sloped at oblique angles on all sides of the congested streets that almost sucked the breath from one's lungs with how close-knit it all was, and he could hear vendors and street artists hollering and yelling to make themselves heard over the roar of the crowds. Guards paced restlessly back and forth, faces sombre and unforgiving as they hoped to scare any potential troublemakers into thinking twice about picking pockets or assaulting townsfolk. But though the atmosphere was so fast-paced, so consuming in its vibrancy, it appeared that the city had grown more prosperous in the few months since the end of the war, and the spirits of the people who lived here had indeed risen considerably now that one didn’t wake to the sound of tortured screams rising from the freshly burnt pyres of Hierarch Square.

He did not think on those times fondly, recalling that even a witcher such as himself who valued neutrality above all things could not simply stand by and allow such evil torment to take place to the innocent. Humanity’s greatest evil, he reckoned it. His smile was grim as they walked, Geralt’s eyes roaming over the few dwarves, elves and half-elves that he could see dotted in amongst the crowd. He knew by that one glance alone that though one peril had ended, the nonhumans continued to suffer; the slums were full, and filling further by the day with their kind. He could see it in the hopelessness and the despair in their eyes.

He thought again back to the day he had entered the square to see dopplers and mages alike tied to stakes and set aflame, Caleb Menge roaring triumphantly at his victory over the downtrodden. He recalled also the day he had stepped foot into the city with Ciri by his side, and elves lined the bridges strung up high and spiked through like slaughtered pigs. The Novigrad of today was thankfully a great improvement over the Novigrad of then, but he did not disillusion himself with this knowledge; just as it was with Vizima, Rivia, and every other city and town in the north, it would be many years indeed before true peace and prosperity reigned within these walls and districts. Until then, it was up to Francis Bedlam and Cleaver, the two that remained of the original four bosses of the Novigrad underworld, to maintain as much order as they could.

Regis appeared to sense the direction his thoughts had taken, for Geralt felt the vampire’s gaze settle upon him a moment. He did not have to wait long for the gentle sound of his voice to reach his ears.

“What are your thoughts?”

Geralt was silent a moment before answering.

“Place is a lot more different now than it was a couple of months back. No one’s getting burned at the stake anymore. Temple guard and witch hunters got a kick out of all that when the mages were here.”

Regis’ lips pulled into a thin line, and the vampire nodded his understanding.

“Yes... I had heard tell of such things shortly before I arrived in Beauclair. It troubled me deeply.”

“You weren’t the only one, Regis,” Geralt replied quietly. “They started on the nonhumans straight after. Just glad that’s all over with now. I’d rather go another day without any more massacres for a while.” 

“That makes two of us, my dear.”

Geralt sighed, sharing another solemn glance with his lover before turning his attention back to the leaning rows of houses in various states of dilapidation, the jaunty music of minstrels rising to a swelling encore in the distance near the docks. There was nothing more to be said on the matter – both witcher and vampire had lived through some of the worst humanity had to offer, and try as they might in wishing to turn back time to change these courses of events, it was simply not possible to do so. Thus they had no choice but to let it go, even if it pained them greatly in doing so.

To take his mind off these troublesome thoughts, Geralt focused again on the city around him, the buzz of life that was a constant thrum in his ears. If his ears did not deceive him, he could also hear the excited voices of town criers notifying the citizens of Novigrad of a new play that was set to release tonight in the Butcher’s Yard – Irina Renarde’s latest in her many well-received and critically acclaimed performances.

The streets narrowed inwards and thinned out as they cautiously approached the intersection that separated the bustling city centre around Hierarch Square from the outer red lanterns districts, in which Dandelion’s cabaret resided. Upon this road, where horses stamped their hooves impatiently at water fountains watched over by statues of city leaders cast in bronze, and where poorer residents of these outer districts mingled with those of a more noticeably middle class, their path veered off into a sharp point to the left. Along this path a small slope of the cobbled street that they were walking down veered past a makeshift collection of small stalls and open shops, where travelling merchants or those who could not fit their wares into the chaos that was Novigrad’s central market district peddled their goods and called for travellers all around to take a look at what was being offered.

They did so now as Geralt and Regis weaved in and out of the crowd, a man dressed in fine coloured silks by one such stall seeing the swords upon Geralt’s back. His eyes sharpening in a manner akin to a predator that had caught sight of its prey, he honed in eagerly on him with his hopeful gaze. He raised a hand and called out to the witcher, trying to beckon him over to sample the latest miracle blade oil that had arrived fresh from the shores of far-off Nazair; one small _touch_ of this oil upon his silver sword and he would never again need to prepare his blade, the man promised him in a rich southern brogue.     

His broad grin quickly faltered and fell slack on his lips when Geralt simply ignored him, Regis trailing by his side and looking very amused indeed as he cast a cursory glance over at the phial the merchant held in his grip. He chuckled, turning back to the man beside him as they walked on.

“Quite bold of him, selling war contraband. From far-off Nazair indeed… those phials are sourced in Nilfgaard.”

Geralt smiled, pausing in his steps a moment to allow two women past before resuming his pace.

“Get familiar with all sorts here lately,” he replied, allowing a brief chuckle himself. “Never gets dull, I can tell you that.”

“Oh I am fully inclined to agree with you, my dear. Did I ever tell you about the man who once attempted to sell to me a rather peculiar blend of herbs with the claim that they warded off vampires?”

Geralt almost stopped in his tracks at that, the witcher’s eyes widening and his lips pulling upwards into a large smirk.

“Must’ve worked, clearly.”

Regis smiled.

"Come. Fortunately enough, the place is not far from our current location." He motioned for the witcher to follow him.

Geralt did so, allowing the vampire to lead him towards the end of the street they had been traversing; the road split off into an open town square, small in size and housing the gateway to the middle class districts that separated the outskirts from the rest of the city. Fortunately there were not many people here this time of day, a relief after the swarms of crowds that thronged incessantly at the gateways and outer streets. The early morning sun’s height indicated that it was only the third hour past dawn – a fact that was soon confirmed by the echoing toll of the bells from the great clock tower in Hierarch Square. From where they stood, surrounded by arches and winding streets that snaked their way towards Novigrad’s heart, they could see only a mere glimpse of the beginning of what was the immeasurable expanse of the world’s largest city. The towers of the Church of the Eternal Fire soared high above the rest of the high rise buildings and monuments, and from here, gazing upwards, it appeared as if the flames that churned through the morning sky were set to swallow them whole.

Geralt saw movement beside him and he broke his reverie to gaze at the vampire. It was true that they didn't have far to walk; Regis strolled before him, pausing a few feet ahead. He inclined his head towards the front of a run-down townhouse a few feet before them, the foundations cracked and rotting from mould. The place looked well over a hundred years old, Geralt thought to himself, and he lifted his head up to further take in the ladders that precariously criss-crossed the walls – the only way to access the upper floors. It, like many of the townhouses that surrounded it and dominated this district, was a home for the very poor. Geralt wondered how much longer it would be for the city’s taxes to rise again and its current tenants to be thrown out onto the streets. There had been a sharp increase in the number of beggars that swarmed the streets shortly before Emhyr had made his brief presence known in the city.

“This the place?” He asked. Regis nodded.

“Yes, here it is. Time has eaten away its original charm of course, but nevertheless it is unmistakeable.” He turned to look at Geralt. “I had been passing through here on my last visit, sampling many a product from alchemists and herbalists that this – in that era – relatively small town had to offer, when I was called to one side by a bearded man who beckoned me to this very shop. I followed, and found myself intrigued by his efforts to beguile me into purchasing the herbs and roots he had on offer.” Regis looked back at the townhouse’s façade, his smile steadily growing.

“I informed him that I had no need for his wares, as I had already acquired all that I was after. But he was persistent, and his perseverance certainly paid off when he reached behind the counter to bring forth a collection of rare plants that I had not seen before. He described them to me as a subspecies of ribleaf, one that only grew in the barren wastelands of the Korath desert.”

“Ribleaf? Use that in a lot of my oils,” Geralt said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Especially the vampire oils.”

Regis chuckled.

“Which is perhaps why he so adamantly pleaded with me to take these plants. Fear had gripped the town in its iron hold, and people saw the threat of vampires all around them. There had been a... incident, three nights prior. It was rumoured a creature of the night had taken lodgings within the outer villages and preyed on the womenfolk. It was not so, fortunately. It had been discovered in the end that a man had been caught slipping into homes at night to have his way with the women as they slept."

Geralt arched a brow. 

"Bastard." 

"Yes, my sentiments exactly," Regis agreed sombrely. "And thus, this herbalist thought to warn me of the threat. He believed that no man or woman could protect themselves against the creature. He claimed that all I need do is grind these herbs up and the crushed leaves would produce an oil that would ward off even the strongest of vampires. Naturally, I did not have the heart to inform him that his claims were unfounded, and, what’s more, ineffective against one such as myself, but I indeed purchased them from him to sate my professional curiosity. It was when I returned to Dillingen that I discovered that when brewed in a herbal tea of moleyarrow and verbena, it worked wonders on helping to ease the symptoms of the common cold. There were far fewer cases of sickness in the town that year, and if I may be so bold as to say, it was one of my more prouder achievements.”

Geralt smiled, joining his lover in sparing another glance back at the house’s mould-ridden façade.

“Emiel Regis, curer of the common cold,” he mused, much to Regis’ thorough amusement. The vampire laughed softly, shaking his head and casting a fond glance at the witcher beside him. That was when Geralt returned his gaze, and a contemplative look entered his eyes. “Never figured you for a city goer. Always told me you preferred the peace and quiet.”

Regis turned, retracing his steps and walking away from the remains of the man’s store.

“By principle, yes I do. I do not make an effort to visit cities very often unless absolute necessity demands it. It is true that many of my brethren prefer to make their homes among the crowds, but as you should know very well by now, Geralt, my place has always been in the out of the way, private niches of society. Small villages and townships, where help is needed the most. It also ensures my privacy, which you also of course know I value highly.” He looked again at the witcher as he said this, Geralt nodding in understanding. Regis continued. 

“I was in Novigrad at that time for one reason only; I had promised to locate the herbs the healer before me in Dillingen required for her brews and salves. She was ailing and unfortunately each day drew her closer to her imminent passing. Alas, the herbs she required were only available here. Even in such a time period the free city of the north remained as such, and trade routes and rare goods were as aplenty here then as they are today.”

Geralt remained silent, reflecting on Regis’ words as they strolled side by side once more on their path. The morning had steadily progressed, and the crowds were now wandering these lower streets in full. Their steps were slowed as a large group of workers ambled drunkenly before them from a sharp corner that had led off from the main strip of road to the left, and with idle fascination Geralt watched as they all but stumbled over one another in their hurry to find another inn. The nearest inn, as he raised his head to observe them better, he found he immediately recognised.

He could see The Chameleon now, the tavern turned cabaret rising steadily before them. The sight of it tugged at something within Geralt’s chest, something that he quickly recognised as a steady wave of nostalgia. He almost shook his head, wanting to quell the grin that was fighting for dominance over his mouth. The doors were open, minstrels gathered on the outside podium tuning their instruments and readying them for their next performance, and brightly clothed dancers waved at the men who passed them by, the women tittering and laughing sultrily as low, appreciative whistles serenaded them where they stood.

He could hear the rambunctious sounds of heated arguments within, and he gave up trying to fight the grin, instead letting it pull at his lips so hard it almost hurt.

“Place hasn’t changed a damn bit.”

It really hadn’t. Stylised plaques hung above the doors, boasting of the next musicals to be staged that night. Elegant curtains draped across the windows, their silk dyed in hues of the deepest reds. The well-maintained façade had recently been touched with a fresh lick of paint, and, something that did not surprise Geralt in the slightest, had also welcomed the addition of posters taped to the windows and outside stage featuring Dandelion and Priscilla in various heroic poses wielding lutes in place of swords – the sheer depiction of wartime ballad heroes. He chuckled, unable to stop himself. Dandelion was the farthest thing from a ‘wartime hero’ one could get, but nevertheless he let his friend think as highly of himself as he pleased. It provided hours of ceaseless entertainment, after all.

Regis stopped beside Geralt, sparing a moment to eye the impressive establishment. To Geralt it appeared that the vampire hadn’t expected any less.

“My, it certainly appears our friend has done remarkably well for himself these past few years,” he said, turning to Geralt again with one brow raised. “So much so, in fact, that I would not have believed it had you not told me beforehand he'd been granted ownership of this place.”

“Don’t remind me. Idiot had me bending over backwards to help him get it opened on time.”

“Ah, now there’s an amusing thought.”

Geralt’s brows rose, and Regis met his incredulous stare with a grin that carefully managed to hide his fangs.

“Damn it, Regis.”

The vampire laughed, a low, clear sound that had Geralt’s lips quirk again despite his attempts not to. He rolled his eyes, unable to feel entirely annoyed at his lover for long, and he made to continue onwards when Regis reached out and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“A moment, Geralt,” he said, and Geralt turned to watch as Regis dropped his hand and made to walk in the opposite direction, his sights set on a side street that curved towards the right of where they were standing.

“Where’re you going?”

“There is a shop I noticed as we were approaching. I wish to have a brief look to see if they carry what I require,” Regis explained over his shoulder. Geralt blinked, confusion settling in the forefront of his head, but he shook it off and merely nodded, instead striding over to the nearest wall of the townhouse he stood before so as to rest his back against it. He watched as Regis disappeared into a door a few blocks down, and he busied himself with studying the crowd that passed back and forth along the busy street.

He did not have to wait long, the witcher lifting his head and straightening up when he saw Regis returning a short while later. He only just caught sight of the vampire slipping something into the folds of his satchel before his lover returned, standing before him with an expectant expression.

“Shall we?” He gestured to The Chameleon. Geralt considered him a moment.

“Do I wanna know?”

The slow grin on Regis’ lips confirmed that yes, he most certainly did. The vampire laughed again, guiding Geralt towards Dandelion’s cabaret.

“Later, Geralt,” he whispered. Geralt smirked, sighing and shaking his head fondly. He gave Regis’ hand a brief squeeze before the pair drew towards the wide open doors of their final, long-awaited destination.

 

*

 

The music was loud in their ears and the roar of gathered workers and off-duty guards inside grew to a frantic buzz the closer they drew. The drunken workers they had previously been following had beaten them inside, Geralt spending a fraction of a second watching them amble inwards upon legs that grew increasingly unsteady underneath them with the effort of walking. He had been here enough times in the past to know, or at least accurately guess, what would surely come next when he heard the surprised squeals of the dancers and annoyed cries of the men, and the furious bellow of a voice that he recognised only far too well.

He grinned wide and pulled Regis to one side by the entrance, the vampire’s amusement clear upon his face as they patiently waited for the tell-tale thump of heavy feet to one’s backside; with shrill yelps and howls of pain, three of the workers stumbled backwards and toppled one over another by the door, much to the disgruntled disgust of the other patrons who had just been set to enter. The last worker had enough sense in his head to push his feet forward in motion, but he did not get very far in his attempts to flee.

The alcohol he had previously imbibed had dulled his movement and softened his inhibitions, and he could not entirely navigate his way past the crawling, groaning bundle of limbs and retching pile of his friends. He tripped over them, eliciting further pained groans and slurred cusses from those he threw back to the ground, and with a shudder and a hoarse sigh he grew still where he lay, whimpering into the cobbled pavement by his face and mumbling drunken prayers for Melitele to ease his mortal suffering.

A shadow loomed over them and heads turned to see furious eyes, cold and sharp as the blade of his axe, focused unblinkingly upon the sorry wretches of life.

“That’s the third time today you sons o’ bitches – told ye when ye last came here that I’d kick yer worthless shiteholes to the ground! Now be off with ye, or I’ll take yer fuckin’ heads an’ stick ‘em on poles in Hierarch Square!” Growling a choice string of curses under his breath, Zoltan Chivay spat on the ground and watched with satisfaction as the workers whimpered and crawled away from the livid dwarf as quick as they were able. They made for a pitiful sight, and the crowd quickly dispersed, murmuring in hushed voices as they darted to and fro, eager to be out of the way lest the co-owner of the cabaret decide to unleash the same punishment upon them.

It was at that moment that Zoltan sighed, shaking his head and turning to walk back inside. He paused when he saw the shadow by the door, and he lifted his head up to see Geralt watching him with a brow raised and an amused grin on his lips. The dwarf cussed again, throwing the rest of the doors open as he beckoned the witcher inside, his expression quickly smoothing over into one that echoed his overwhelming surprise and delight at the presence of the unannounced visitor.

“Geralt, always in the nick of time you old bastard!” he roared joyously, laughing when the witcher chuckled and followed him through. He reached out to clasp Geralt’s hand tightly in a firm shake, one that Geralt eagerly returned.

“You know me, Zoltan. Don’t plan on missing out on a free show like that. Too damn fun to watch.”

Zoltan scoffed, shaking his head again.

“It’s been too long, Geralt, pal,” he said, and the grin on his bearded face swiftly dropped when he saw movement behind the witcher’s shoulder. Geralt smiled, Regis drawing up next to his side again after having held back a moment to allow the few hopeful customers who still remained after the brawl to enter the establishment before him. There was a beat of silence, one which Geralt felt grew so heavy even through the laughter and the music of the other patrons around, and he saw Zoltan’s eyes cloud over as if he had just seen a wraith.

Recognition flared immediately after, and the dwarf took a swift step forwards, arm outstretched to clasp Regis tightly by the hand as he had done with Geralt.

“Melitele’s tits, I’ll be damned. Master Regis… it’s been an age.”

Regis chuckled lowly, clasping Zoltan’s hand in turn and inclining his head.

“In a manner of speaking,” he replied. “It’s good to see you again, master Chivay.”

Zoltan sucked a sharp breath of air between his teeth and cast his disbelieving gaze first to Geralt, and then back to Regis again.

“Cannae barely believe it. Geralt told us you’d… ach, never mind.” He waved his hand as if pushing the thought away from his head. “Dandelion’ll be wantin’ to hear this too, no doubt. I’ll sate my curiosity till then. Sit yerselves down by the corner there, got a table already laid out. I’ll get the bard an’… a few rounds o’ solid Mahakaman spirit.”

“Bit too early for that, isn’t it?” Geralt asked, fighting down the urge to smile again. Zoltan shot him a withering glance.

“Aye, but you’ll forgive me if I feel like I need a steadying drink after all this. Or three.” He then turned, waving them off in the direction of the table. As they watched him disappear behind the small crowd that had gathered by the bar, where the waitress hurriedly took orders for the next rounds of ale and food that were being shouted to her by the impatient guardsmen she was serving, Geralt and Regis were afforded a minute to themselves to take stock of the laughing patrons, the music floating in from the outside as the musicians picked up their instruments once more, and the roaring thrum of excitement and undeniable sophistication that was Dandelion’s cabaret.

Geralt guided Regis along, nodding with his head to the table that Zoltan had shown to them, and the pair weaved past those gathered to sit themselves down at a private booth that had been placed near the far wall, away from the hubbub of the foyer. The seats had been upholstered in a smooth leather and carved with such intricate craftsmanship that Geralt couldn’t help but arch a brow at it all, wondering just how well Dandelion’s business had been going for him if he had been able to afford such clear luxuries in the relatively short time he had taken over the establishment.

He did not complain, however, as it was by far the most comfortable thing he had sat on in in a good long time, outside of the luxurious beds of the New Narakort and his own private quarters in Corvo Bianco. Regis slid down onto the seat next to him, and the vampire cast another thoughtful glance at the tavern around them before raising his voice to speak.

“That went better than expected.”

Geralt snorted, leaning forwards and resting his arms on the tabletop.

“Kinda curious to know what you could possibly be expecting from all this.”

Regis’ lips quirked, and he slid his hand down between them to alight gently upon Geralt’s knee, resting it there a moment. Geralt found comfort in the warm touch, and he contented himself with threading his fingers through Regis’ own as his lover continued.

“A great many things, Geralt. Just as I of course expect there to be a great deal of explanation that must be given, and the chance to, when Dandelion has at last questioned us until he can no longer fit all his newfound ideas upon the fresh page of his book, retire to the privacy of our room to indulge in more… relaxing activities.”

Geralt was thankful he did not have a mug of ale to his lips at that moment, as he surely would have spat out its contents onto the table. As it was, he found that he was lost for words for what Regis no doubt considered quite an extensive period of time, as the vampire slowly arched a brow and showed his fangs in his amused smirk.

Geralt cleared his throat, being effectively jarred back to the present at the sight.

“Regis… gotta be careful, saying things like that. Might think you’re propositioning me.”

“A most inconceivable notion, my dear. I wonder where you could have possibly gotten that impression.”

Geralt matched Regis’ calm expression, not wanting to fall into the obvious trap that it was. But no sooner had he thought that had he known it was fruitless, and he didn’t mind it at all.

“Wouldn’t happen to have had anything to do with what you bought earlier, would it?” He arched a brow. Regis hummed, smiling softly.

“Not at all. This stems from my own personal desire, I assure you.”

Geralt laughed, the sound rumbling freely from his chest much to Regis’ clear satisfaction, and the witcher did not fail to notice the way those dark eyes watched him with a longing and a tenderness that sobered his thoughts immediately. Geralt’s laughter soon faded once more into silence; in that moment, he was willing to forget that they were not alone. He straightened in his seat and he would have leant in, would have inched himself closer if he could just silence that roaring need – that _want_ – to seize those pale lips and feel their warmth upon his yearning mouth. He could do no such thing, however, given their current situation, and it was with a frustrated sigh that Geralt realised that Regis’ earlier teasing was in fact quite well founded and indicative of his lover’s own impatience.

He would have smiled again, at that. The thought of Regis being anything other than his calm, collected self in favour of adopting anything remotely akin to such an emotion as that was one which piqued Geralt’s fascination more than he cared to admit. So he settled himself for merely offering that hand upon his knee a brief squeeze, only to stop when he caught sight of two figures now approaching from beyond the line of half-drunken patrons that had gathered now in full force by the bar.

The plump egret feather nestled in the colourful cap atop the bard’s head danced and swayed as Dandelion moved, engaged in a heated conversation with Zoltan judging by the way he energetically gesticulated with his hands and spoke in urgent hushed tones. Geralt smiled at the sight of his friend again, and Regis’ soft chuckle beside him did not go amiss. The bard and dwarf loomed ever closer, and though their words were muffled somewhat by the chatter and laughter that comprised the background noise of the tavern, their words could still be picked out with ease.

“—what do you mean I have to close the tavern for today? Are you insane?!”

“Dandelion, ye’d best believe me on this.”

Dandelion’s eyes narrowed at the dwarf, and it seemed to Geralt that he was suffering great difficulty in trying to remain composed. For a moment Zoltan’s eyes flickered over to the two seated at the table, and the witcher saw the defeat in his eyes as he sighed and shook his head.

“Geralt’s come back fer a visit. Do the bloody damn courtesy of shuttin’ the place down fer a few wee hours, eh? You’ll be fine – you’ve got coin shittin’ out yer arse right now, ye daft idiot.”

Dandelion grew still at those words, and he quickly straightened himself up and looked around, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Geralt’s here? Why didn’t you say so earlier?” He scanned each table and each patron in earnest with his sharp blue eyes, trying to catch sight of the witcher wherever he may be. It did not take him long. Seeing the familiar head of white hair and pale face marred by deep, cruel looking scars, Dandelion’s eyes lit up and he approached with a grin as wide as anything Geralt had ever seen on him before.

“Geralt! It’s about time you visited! I—” His arms dropped, and he stopped dead in his tracks. Geralt felt Regis shift a little beside him, the vampire gazing back at the poet with a barely concealed grin of his own when Dandelion’s eyes caught him seated there next to the witcher. A long, pregnant pause followed, and in those seconds Geralt could almost feel Dandelion’s shock, his disbelief, as if it were his own.

Blue eyes blinked, lips stuttered and fell open, and the bard froze. Simply froze.

Then he turned and strode with a determined calmness to the centre of the crowd, using the nearby stage to raise himself up above the heads of his patrons as he cleared his throat, spreading his arms wide and projecting his voice in a clear, well-rehearsed tone.

“My dear ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his words causing a lull in the ongoing conversation as bodies and eyes turned to look at him, “I’d like to thank you all graciously for attending today – however, due to the complicated and _extremely_ delicate rehearsals that need to take place for tonight’s performance, I’ll invite you to all to step outside and return after sundown. The Chameleon will be closed for the rest of the afternoon.”

The outrage that his words were met with seemed to have been something that Dandelion was expecting, or, more accurately, fearing given how he had responded to Zoltan’s suggestion, and Geralt watched with arched brows as the bard shook his head and lifted his hands higher in a placating manner, calling for order and trying to make himself heard over the drunken slurs of two temple guardsmen leaning precariously over by the doorway.

“Good patrons, I assure you, there is—”

“What performance?”

Dandelion paused, flinching almost imperceptibly at the sharp question from one of the dancers who had pushed her way to the front. The noise died down almost instantaneously, and in that silence one could hear a pin drop. Dandelion, to his credit, remained as calm and as composed as he possibly could be given the awkward situation he had pushed himself into, and he affixed the woman with a dazzling smile that made her cheeks flush.

“Oh my dear girl, it seems you’ve forgotten. I told you this morning – we were planning on my rendition of Priscilla’s famous ‘A Changeling Rescued’.”

“But we did that last night.” The girl’s painted brows furrowed in confusion, and Dandelion laughed, though not unkindly. Geralt could see the muscles in the bard’s jaw clench.

“And we’re doing it again tonight! Please, go home and get some rest. I’ll see you back here just before dusk.” He allowed no further opportunity for the poor girl to question him any further, and he hopped down from the stage as the tavern goers and the rest of the disgruntled dancers grumbled their distaste and filed out towards the streets one by one. It was a lengthy process, given the various stages of intoxication that had gripped the patrons in their hours spent in the tavern, but eventually the last man had left and The Chameleon was for all intents and purposes empty.

Almost empty, at least.

The lady by the bar cautiously approached the bard, and he turned when she cleared her throat and spoke up in a wavering voice.

“S-sir, does that mean I’m allowed to leave now, too?”

“What?” Dandelion blinked and looked at her as if noticing her for the first time, and quickly nodded his head and indicated the door with his hand. “Yes. See you later.”

Her face lit up and she nodded eagerly, almost rushing out the door which Dandelion closed behind her. At last a heavy silence replaced the drone of voices and laughter that had previously rung out loud and clearly within those walls, and sparing a moment to visibly compose himself further, Dandelion slowly turned around and looked at those who watched him from the far table by the corner.

His eyes crinkled with the pull of the large grin upon his lips, and he laughed as he approached them.

“I can’t believe it… Geralt, I’m always happy to see you, my friend, but…” He stopped by the table now, and he clasped Regis’ hand tightly as the vampire stood from his seat and allowed the warm welcome. “Regis, is that _really_ you?!”

Regis smiled, returning the gesture and offering Dandelion’s hand a firm shake as the bard clapped him on the back.

“It is. You haven’t changed a bit, master Dandelion. It’s good to see you again.”

Dandelion shook his head, his delight clear upon his face.

“Likewise, my old friend. But if you don’t mind me asking… _how?_ How are you here?! Geralt told us that you were—” He stopped, quickly looking at Geralt, who was watching the scene with a small smile on his lips. The witcher in turn raised his eyes to look back at Regis, who nodded as if a silent conversation had passed between the two.

“I was as you understand it, yes. But my miraculous recovery is a tale that would be better suited for later on, I think,” Regis replied, smile widening at Dandelion. The man nodded, Dandelion agreeing to not press the matter further, and he exhaled sharply as he slumped down into the seat opposite them whilst Zoltan returned with the drinks that he had promised earlier.

“A taste o’ the motherland’s finest an’ you’ll pick yer jaw right back up off the table,” the dwarf laughed, placing a tankard down in front of the bard who narrowed his eyes at his friend. Zoltan ignored him, passing round the rest of the drinks, and he sat himself down next to Dandelion who shook his head again and darted his eyes back and forth between the witcher and vampire seated before him.

“I knew it,” he murmured, more to himself than anything. “Geralt told us but I _knew_ it wouldn’t be that easy to… well. A higher vampire? Killed? Couldn’t be that simple, right? Even if Vilgefortz _was_ a real son of a bitch. I—”

“Dandelion.” The bard stopped short, looking up at Geralt’s quick interruption. He saw the look on the witcher’s face and he cleared his throat.

“Right. Sorry.” He took a swig from his tankard and shuddered. Geralt wondered if Zoltan had given him the spirit on purpose seeing as Dandelion, just as he was famous for his songs and poetry, was equally famous for being unable to hold his liquor. He raised his own mug, drank deeply, and smacked his lips in appreciation of the sharp burn and rich, heady sweetness that coursed down his throat, warming him to the very core.

“Went to a whole lot of trouble to throw everyone out, Dandelion. You really got a performance planned for tonight?” He arched a brow at his friend as he placed his tankard back down on the table. Dandelion groaned.

“No. I don’t,” he sighed. “Now I’ll have to call Polly over and plan the rehearsals.”

“Ye dinnae ‘ave to plan a big speech like that, ye tit,” Zoltan scoffed over his own mug of spirit. “Now look at the mess ye’ve gotten yerself into.” He fixed Geralt and Regis with an apologetic grimace, waving the bard off when Dandelion made to open his mouth again to argue.

“What brings ye back to Novigrad? Last I heard, Geralt, you’d gotten yerself in shite creek without a paddle in Toussaint.”

At the mention of the duchy, Dandelion straightened in his seat and looked at the witcher and vampire with noticeable concern in his eyes.

“That's right. Geralt, when you’d told the duchess her sister had planned her murder,” he continued, voice dropping to a whisper as if he was afraid that anyone other than them would hear, “it took days for Annarietta to make peace after that…” He looked at Regis. “I take it you both being here now isn’t a coincidence?”

Regis’ lips pressed into a thin line and he shook his head.

“It would indeed be a most wondrous coincidence. No, it is not. In fact nothing could be farther from the truth.”

“We set out from Toussaint together,” Geralt added, leaning back further in his seat, “on the duchess’s request. Been on the road north ever since. Wanted to stop by here and see how you were going.” 

“The duchess’s request?” Dandelion repeated, eyes widening. “Geralt… what happened?”

Geralt paused, and he cast a quick glance at Regis who returned the look and offered the slightest nod of his head. It would be pointless to hide anything from their friends about those fateful few months in Beauclair, after all. Pointless to hide anything, that is, except for the matters of their private lives, and how their paths had become so intricately and inexplicably intertwined. No, that was very much a matter that they both knew they would have to keep to themselves for now.

It suited Geralt just fine. What he had – what _they_ had – was a thing to be savoured, to be coveted and guarded fiercely, and he’d be damned if he let Dandelion get any more fuel for the fire for his ballads and stories. He’d had enough unwanted attention thrown upon him as of late as it was. He did not need any more. Judging by the look in Regis’ eyes, Geralt was not the only one to be thinking much the same.

“It’s a long story…” He looked back at the bard. Dandelion narrowed his eyes, leaning forwards across the table with his blue eyes fixed unblinkingly upon the two.

“Tell us everything. From the very start.”

Unable to hide the twitch of his lips, Geralt shrugged and downed another swallow of his liquor. Placing his half-empty tankard back against the tabletop, he opened his mouth and began to speak.

 

*

 

The sun had set past its zenith as the four men sat at that lone table in the middle of the quiet establishment, dwarf and bard listening attentively and asking as few questions as they dared as witcher and vampire divulged to them all that had happened in Toussaint. It was a lifetime ago now, and Geralt found himself reflecting on the events with disinterest. Dandelion had only known as much as he had discovered when he had travelled to Toussaint to help free Geralt from his prison sentence, and so the bard was particularly mindful of each new detail that came to light. Geralt spoke of the summons he had received from the duchess, and of how he had arrived in the duchy that remained as unchanged and as eternal as it had the first time he had set foot within its borders; Dandelion sighed longingly, and the envy in his gaze was unmistakeable.

Zoltan remained quiet, sipping from his tankard and only speaking to prod Dandelion into silence, much to Geralt’s relief and Regis’ amusement. The tale shifted, and Geralt spoke of the body he had found in Corvo Bianco; the severed hand that eventually led him to Dettlaff, and Regis in turn when the latter had stepped in just as Geralt was quickly becoming overpowered in that warehouse Geralt had followed Dettlaff to after Milton’s murder. It was at this point in the conversation when Regis then offered to continue, and Geralt allowed him to do so.

Grateful for the chance to sit back properly and relax, Geralt closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the headrest of the booth they currently occupied; he felt the fatigue of the journey once more creep up to claim him, and he wanted nothing more than to savour his drink and fall into sleep’s waiting clutches.

He listened to Regis speak as he did so, finding calm in hearing those words roll off his tongue in his soothing voice. He also took great interest in hearing that fateful tale of events narrated from a different perspective to his own, and it was not lost on the witcher how Regis took great pleasure in praising Geralt’s actions and determination to do what was right.

He was reminded of that night in Corvo Bianco, when it had all started. When he had reached the absolute deepest, darkest place inside of him that clawed at him from the inside out, shrouded his mind in a regret, in an uncertainty that left him shaken. He had poured his heart out to Regis and it had been Regis who had pieced him back together again, and for that Geralt knew he would always be grateful. Hearing those words now, that steadfast reassurance as Regis defended Geralt’s actions as if they were his own left the witcher speechless in ways that he could never have imagined before; he only hoped that neither Dandelion nor Zoltan would pick up on it.

Thankfully, it seemed they did not.

He saw Regis’ eyes flicker over to him, and the corners of his pale lips twitched upwards into a soft smile. He then glanced back at the bard and dwarf, who appeared to be hanging onto his every word, drawn in by the vampire’s narrative as he told of how Dettlaff had planned his attack on Beauclair, and how time was of the utmost essence in locating Syanna before it was too late. In grave tones, he spoke of Syanna’s demise at the hands of the lover she had manipulated, and how in Regis’ uncertainty of what to do next he had sent a raven with a note to give word to Dandelion as soon as Geralt had been captured by the ducal guard. Dandelion had blinked openly in astonishment; he had never known who had sent those ravens or the note that accompanied them, but now, at last, it made sense.

Geralt noticed that Regis soon faltered in his tale, however, and the witcher quickly cleared his throat, rousing from his state of lethargy to finish off.

“—that’s when you bailed me out, and Regis and I tried to find out who’d planned the final murder. Talked to the bootblack and he led us to a local beggar hall… we found the last letter there. Syanna’d given it to a man and told him he wasn’t to give it to Dettlaff until a certain date. We read it, and that’s when I went to show Anna Henrietta the proof Syanna had been planning her death since the very start.” Geralt sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair.

“Two weeks later the duchess called me to the palace and banished me from the duchy. For good, on pain of death.”

Zoltan cussed sharply under his breath, the dwarf shaking his head in melancholy as he pushed his empty tankard away from him. Dandelion, on the other hand, had grown so still that Geralt wondered if perhaps the man had been replaced with a living statue sometime over the course of their conversation; never before had he seen the bard so lacking in emotion upon his face, or movement of his hands which, up until a few moments prior, had been wringing together nervously upon the tabletop.

“Damn it,” he eventually whispered, and his voice was shaken, “I should have been there.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Dandelion,” Geralt replied, arching a brow. “In case you haven’t forgotten, you’re still a persona non grata in Toussaint.”

Dandelion shifted uncomfortably.

“Well, it’s true the duchess wasn’t all that happy to see me at first… in fact, she actually kicked me out herself shortly after you went back to Corvo Bianco, but… I made progress, Geralt. If I go back there again now she _will_ let me speak to her! I can talk to her, try to get her to change her mind, or—”

“I fear no manner of speaking nor any heartfelt show of goodwill will change the duchess’s mind,” Regis interrupted calmly, leaning forwards in his seat to lock his eyes on the bard. “She is grieving and she chose the course of action that she believed was the best to take for both herself, her kingdom, and her people. Dandelion, we have made peace with the situation. I believe I speak for Geralt too when I say that we are both thankful for your concern, but unfortunately it is misplaced.”

Dandelion stared at him, clearly wanting to argue the vampire’s words. Zoltan pushed the still-full tankard in front of Dandelion closer to him, all but forcing it into the bard’s hands.

“Dandelion, will ye listen to ‘em, fer fuck’s sake? There’s nothing ye can do now. Let it go.”

Dandelion shook his head, an argument ready to form yet again on his lips, but as if by a great force of effort he eventually nodded and ceded defeat in the face of his friends’ urging. He took his tankard, raised it to his lips, and grimaced when he swallowed and placed it back down on the table.

“One thing’s still bothering me,” he announced, and all eyes turned to him. He looked at Geralt. “Geralt, despite what Syanna was responsible for and was planning, Annarietta still told you to keep her sister safe. She ordered it. So why didn’t you? That’s not like you to just let some murderer walk free… I mean, vampire or not he _did_ kill all those people. He’s not exactly innocent, either.” He cast a quick look at Regis. “No offense, Regis.”

Regis sighed softly, and no one but Geralt saw the weight that settled itself on the vampire’s shoulders as he sat there. He dropped his hand down under the table, seeking the long fingers of his lover and threading his hands into that warm touch. The gesture was returned gratefully, and Regis appeared to take strength from it.

“It’s not that simple, Dandelion,” Geralt said quietly.

“Geralt, I’m sure you had your reasons – some ancient witcher’s code or something – but—”

“Geralt was faced with a difficult choice, one which he responded to with a courage that I am certain no one of us sitting here could ever hope to surpass,” Regis said slowly. He could feel Geralt turn his head to look at him, and he again took comfort from the hold his lover maintained on his hand. “Dettlaff is not inherently evil. He is… misguided. He struggles to understand, and indeed he is someone swayed very much so by his emotions. He was someone who set out to save the one person who meant the most to him, and found his loyalty was betrayed at the last instant. Even I could not foresee how it would all end, when we brought Syanna before him. I had hoped… no, I was _certain_ that they would speak and try to understand one another from each other’s own perspectives, but…”

“How could you be certain? You seem really sure about this guy, Regis,” Dandelion noted. Regis smiled thinly.

“Because I am. I believe we are coming now to the one aspect of our tale that has been eating away at you with curiosity since you first saw me here, master poet. Dettlaff is the one who found me in Stygga Castle. He regenerated me in his own blood. He could have left me there to do so on my own – a very lengthy and laborious process that would take many years in your terms, given how little of my corporeal form remained – but he didn’t.”

Dandelion’s eyes widened, and by the twitch of his fingers Geralt knew that the poet was itching for a quill and paper. He narrowed his eyes at his friend. Regis saw this too, but deigned to continue.

“Make no mistake, I did not and still _do not_ condone any of his actions. They were abhorrent, even for him. But I owe it to Dettlaff to try and make him see the error of his ways, to reach out and talk to him. At least… I did. He has chosen his own path, one away from humans where he can gather his thoughts, and I must respect that choice and follow in his footsteps and return to my own matters. I only wish that things could have ended differently between he and Syanna. If I had the power to do so, I would ensure they had. I held no love for the woman, true, but her death was something I had sworn would be avoided at all costs.”

Geralt sighed.

“And I owed it to Regis,” he said, much to the surprise of those sitting there, especially the vampire in question. Regis blinked, his eyes slowly widening. Geralt ignored him, instead working his mind through the thoughts that swirled in his brain, vying with his tongue in their battle to make themselves known. “He told me about Dettlaff, about who he was. Even heard it from the duchess herself when she spoke to me about him after we’d gone to The Mandragora – she said he was a good man, though sad. You weren’t there, Dandelion. You didn’t drink the Resonance decoction and felt the agony he did when he murdered de la Croix. You didn’t see how he looked at Syanna after he’d killed her. He never wanted it, but he was backed into a corner and the only thing he could do was strike.” He paused, his brows furrowing as he struggled to explain as much as he dared.

“It was either kill him and put Regis in danger, or let him go and hope he kept his word and stayed away. Regis has never let me down before, so I chose to trust him. Didn’t want him to put himself at risk again. The least I could do, really, because if it wasn’t for Dettlaff Regis wouldn’t be here today.”

“Geralt…”

The witcher looked at Regis out the corner of his eye, seeing the clear shock on his face. He hadn’t told him this before, at least not to this extent. Geralt hadn’t quite known how to say it at first, so he had disregarded it in favour of his more taxing worries that night when Regis had first come to visit him in Corvo Bianco. But now that he had gotten it off his chest, he was glad. Especially when he saw the look in Regis’ eyes, those dark irises singing of gratitude in their black depths.

“Ach, the whole situation’s shite,” Zoltan muttered. “Don’t know anythin’ about what secret laws you vampires have, but if yer safe an’ sound an’ back in the world o’ the livin’ once again, master Regis, then I cannae see what the problem is. So what if this Dettlaff is still walkin’ around? I believe ye when ye say he won’t bother anyone again.”

Dandelion sighed heavily.

“Alright, you’ve all made your point. I was just looking at it from all perspectives here.”

“There is no harm done, Dandelion,” Regis assured him quietly. “I appreciate your honesty on the matter. Indeed there had been many a time when I found myself wondering too if my faith in my friend was somehow… skewed… misplaced… perhaps by a false sense of loyalty, given I indeed owed him my very life – in fact, much more than that. But he _is_ trying, and I can ask for no more. I can only hope that in time Syanna’s name is cleared and the rest of the duchy can give her the respect in death that she did not receive in life. And that such unfortunate events never occur again.”

A silence once again settled over the four, and in that silence they could hear the bustle of the Novigrad streets through the windows. From nearby in Hierarch Square, the bells tolled and welcomed in the afternoon, and their chorus was echoed high above from the Temple Quarter and the burning towers of the Church of the Eternal Fire. After the last bell had struck, Zoltan stirred and rose from his seat.

He offered little more than a grunt that he was going to get more ale, and indeed when he returned some time later with four fresh tankards in tow, their conversation at last resumed.

“So ye told us you’d gone north from the duchy after the duchess sent you off. Where’d yer paths take you? Roads’re treacherous to travel on these days, after the war,” the dwarf continued, gulping down three large mouthfuls of ale and belching into the back of his hand.

“Took the northern highway through Belhaven up to Riedbrune,” Geralt replied, rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension in his muscles.

“Aye, not a lot o’ trouble to be had there, I wager,” Zoltan agreed. “No one’s been foolish enough to head that far away south since Emhyr left his mark on the place.”

“We thought that too at first,” Geralt mused, arching a brow at the confusion in Zoltan’s eyes. “Turns out we got there just in time. Arrived to see the entire town starved of food and rumours of a werewolf prowling the village and stealing their grain.”

“What?” Dandelion sat up straight, listening attentively to Geralt’s every word. “A werewolf? Stealing _grain?”_

“A case that was heavily veiled in mystery and intrigue,” Regis said. He smiled bitterly. “It appeared the ealdorman of the town had been dealing with his Nilfgaardian friends, and had stored the crops and grain from the latest harvest away from his fellow villagers. In doing so, he was set to receive accolades from the Nilfgaardian army for supplying them with such valuable provisions, with a luring promise of capital and a place of standing within Nilfgaard proper for his service. He sowed the rumour of the werewolf to ward against travellers from entering Riedbrune whilst he schemed.”

“What a bastard,” Dandelion muttered. Geralt nodded his head.

“Wouldn’t’ve found out about it either if he didn’t come up to us and give us the contract in the first place,” he admitted. “Turned out he panicked; saw I was a witcher and couldn’t turn us away. Besides, he had more problems to deal with than someone seeing through his fraud. The grain was being stolen every night when there was a full moon. We went to check it out and found one of the boys from the village leaving the granary with his hands full. He’d been taking it all back.”

“Good lad,” Zoltan said, and he looked just as pleased as Dandelion at this news. Geralt offered a small smile, agreeing wholeheartedly.

“Of course you put a stop to it all,” Dandelion then spoke up, arching a brow quizzically at both witcher and vampire who nodded in reply.

“That we did,” Regis said. “We paid the ealdorman a visit that very night. We revealed to him all we knew, and he eventually fled to Nilfgaard with some… persuasion. Later on, when Geralt and I had found ourselves crossing the Yaruga and taking respite in a small inn upon the highway, we discovered from the villagers that he had since been captured in the city, and had promptly found lodging in the prisons.”     

Dandelion whistled, both his and Zoltan’s grins splitting their faces in two as they laughed.

“Poor bastard! It’s almost enough to bring a tear to yer eye,” Zoltan crowed, wiping away the tears that had indeed sprung to his eyes from the force of his booming laughter. Such laughter was infectious, Geralt found, and he couldn’t resist eliciting a chuckle of his own. Regis smiled, the barest hint of his fangs showing behind his lips.

“Haven’t heard the half of it yet,” Geralt soon added when all laughter had slowly died down. He cleared his throat and began to recount their journey as it had occurred since they had crossed the Yaruga; another round of ale was brought over, and Dandelion and Zoltan sat in enraptured silence as Geralt spoke of their time in Rivia. The bard and dwarf noticeably stiffened in their seats when the witcher told of their arrival at the city gates, both Zoltan and Dandelion remembering only far too well the horrors that had struck the last time they had ventured there with Geralt.

They remembered the massacres, just as they remembered how the light had seeped from Geralt’s eyes when he had been struck down in the midst of it all. But that was an age long past, and now their eyes only held concern for the unsettling murder that had drawn both Geralt and Regis into the midst of a planned attack with the leader of Rivia’s criminal underworld.

Dandelion excused himself after a moment, and Geralt knew that it was pointless in trying to stop his friend as he returned with the quill and paper he had so desperately been seeking since they had all sat down at that table.

“Please, Geralt, this is a story that needs to be told,” Dandelion explained when he’d seen the look Geralt had fired at him.

“I’m telling it right now,” the witcher replied with his arms crossed over his chest. He rolled his eyes when Dandelion ignored him, but he continued nevertheless.

They learned of Steffick and his poisons, and of the criminal Greyneck Gortag, who had roped the witcher and the vampire into an unsuspecting game – one that he’d fully intended to win. But for all his certainty and his skill, the corrupt guard captain could not survive against those he had fought on the banks of Elm. Geralt was sure to skip the more grisly details, the memories of that night being ones that he would sooner rather forget; these thoughts Regis mirrored, and Dandelion thankfully did not press them to shed more light on it. 

What drew Dandelion’s attention in particular, however, was of the meeting with Meve the next morning. He interrupted Geralt no less than five times, drawing Geralt’s ire more often than not. He had wanted to know how she’d reacted when she’d seen them; after all, they had abandoned her service whilst on the search for Ciri, and had never once looked back. He knew that she would see this as a death sentence, and to hear that she had rescinded her punishment in order to hear them out had Dandelion beside himself with relief. Regis in the end calmly interjected, answering each of Dandelion’s questions about the queen and saving Geralt the trouble, much to his gratitude.   

“—and then she told us to leave Rivia. Made damn sure to let us know that we’d be hanging from the gallows the next time we set foot there, though,” Geralt continued again after Dandelion’s curiosity had at last been sated. “We took our horses and left – her scouts had said the Mahakam mountain pass was the best route westwards, and we followed through until we hit Vizima.”

“A regular shitehole, Vizima,” Zoltan said as he stroked a hand through the bristles of his beard. “Got a cousin there. Also a regular shitehole.”

Geralt was hard-pressed to disagree with that.

“Managed to dig up a contract while we were there – something normal, for once. Woman wanted us to find an amulet her brother had dropped in the cemetery when they were attacked by monsters. Turned out to be a couple of garkains. They’d already killed the brother, but we made sure to clear the place out and bring her back her amulet.”

“A most unfortunate circumstance and certainly not something one looks fondly on, but thankfully we were able to bring some peace to her mind at last,” Regis added. “That is all we could do.”

“We stayed the night and left again next day, and kept north until we arrived here this morning,” Geralt finished off, draining the last of his ale with a voracious thirst. He groaned softly in satisfaction and wiped the back of his mouth. “And there you have it.”

“Wow.” Dandelion shook his head, slumping back against the back of his chair with a look of awe imprinted firmly upon his face. “Just… wow.”

“Ye’ve been through hell an’ back,” Zoltan agreed, chuckling lightly. “Dinnae think I could’ve expected anythin’ like that. Makes me think twice about venturin’ outside o’ Novigrad from now on.”

“I’ll say,” Dandelion nodded. He folded his slender hands across the tabletop, looking at Geralt and Regis both. “So what’re you going to do now?”

“What d’you mean?” Geralt arched a brow.

“Well, you know my doors are open to you anytime my friend, but how long are you going to stay in Novigrad for?”

“Dunno,” Geralt said at length. “Haven’t given it much thought.” He hadn’t. It had never occurred to him on the road how long he had been planning on staying in the city, but with a gentle touch from Regis’ hand upon his under the table, Geralt knew that they would have ample time to discuss it later.

Dandelion waved off the comment – a silent gesture that it was of no real importance anyway; truly, he had no qualms about how long Geralt would stay – and then he looked at the vampire.

“And what about you, Regis?”

“Ah…” Regis turned, glancing at Geralt beside him. A moment passed before either of them said anything further. Then the vampire continued, a secretive smile on his lips that only Geralt could pick up on. “I had actually been planning on staying here briefly, myself. Geralt and I have decided to travel together for a while longer. These past weeks have been most remarkable, and indeed I found I rather missed the company during the time I was… absent.”

Dandelion looked delighted, and even Zoltan went so far as to look pleased.

“That’s wonderful!” The bard exclaimed. “In fact I was hoping you’d say that. It’s been far too long, my friend. Stay here for as long as you want, the both of you. I’m just sorry I won’t be able to join you again when you do end up leaving…” He sighed wistfully, and Zoltan rolled his eyes beside him.

Inwardly, Geralt was glad at that, though he was careful to not let his relief show on his face. Regis, however, chuckled good-naturedly and took a sip of his ale.

“You have heard our tale, now I wish to know if you’d care to indulge me, master Dandelion, master Chivay. I must say I’ve been most curious to learn what the both of you have been involved in in recent times. I’m pleased to see that you’ve come into a considerable fortune here with this lovely establishment, for starters.”

Dandelion positively beamed, his smile splitting across his face at the praise.

“Well, there’s not much to tell, really…”

A modest phrase, and one that Geralt knew could not be farther from the truth. So it came as no surprise how the hours ticked by as they listened, Dandelion recounting each intricate aspect of his and Zoltan's voyage into entrepreneurship with excessive detail. Geralt was proud of him though, no matter how often he claimed otherwise.

The sun had begun to set through the stained glass windows when the witcher sat up from the table, only half paying attention to the drone of Dandelion’s voice as he paced the empty dining hall. He had heard it all before, but that did not stop him from allowing Regis the opportunity to talk in private with the friends he had not seen since they had last gathered together like this, all those years ago. It was the very least he could do, after all, and when he turned his head in time to see the vampire tilt his head back in laughter at a gleeful anecdote from Zoltan, he felt a great sense of ease and satisfaction claim him.

Walking from window to window, Geralt cast his eyes upon the plaques and framed diplomas that littered the walls in each spare space that they could fill, proof of Dandelion’s numerous achievements from his time at the Oxenfurt Academy and many a literary and poetry event in cities the land over. He hung them there as Geralt would hang his swords in Corvo Bianco: with the utmost pride. Geralt smiled again, unable to suppress a smirk at his friend’s name as he caught the stylised ‘Julian Alfred Pankratz’ entitled on five awards in particular.

Striding further down now, he saw the bard’s lute seated in its place of honour upon a stand in the corner, next to a small stage that provided no better place for Dandelion to sit and strum away at the instrument, trying songs and melodies to accompany Priscilla’s melodic voice as the pair worked on their music together.

He wondered about Priscilla; it had been some time since he had heard from her, but it was clear that she remained by Dandelion’s side. Indeed from the table Geralt could hear them speaking of her now. She had gone to Hierarch Square that morning to gather inspiration for her next ballad, Dandelion was saying. Geralt did not fail to hear the dreamy quality Dandelion’s voice had taken in doing so. He grinned, though no one could see it.

He was relieved to hear that she had recovered from that fateful ordeal in the back alleys of Novigrad – her voice remained strong and only continued to grow stronger with remarkable speed every day, as Dandelion now confirmed when Regis queried him on the subject. Geralt had only spoken to him briefly about her, but Regis was of course as sharp as ever, and had understood more from the little that Geralt had mentioned than Geralt realised at first.

Sparing another last glance at the lute, Geralt turned and found himself face to face with Dandelion himself. He narrowed his eyes, uncertain as to how best to voice his thoughts about the larger-than-life painting of his friend that hung from the top of the right-hand wall, and seemed to trail ever downwards until it hit the floor. It was an interesting painting, Geralt soon decided, as he stood before it and crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing the splashes of bright colours that somehow came together to give form to Dandelion standing with sword pointed down between a dragon’s skull, its angry mate rearing back and loosening a terrifying column of flame with its breath as the second dragon made to lunge at the heroic bard.

 _Damn idiot’s never held a sword in his life,_ Geralt mused, a wry grin splitting his lips. In fact, he wasn’t even certain if the artist had ever paid close attention to the expression one wore when usually they found themselves equipped with a sword and faced with danger; Dandelion’s expression was stoic, proud. Geralt knew from experience that in the midst of it all, when your life was on the line, fear was most predominant above all else. Fear and the will to keep going, even though limbs ached and wounds bled, and it was one split second between collapsing from exhaustion or having your head cut off by the cruel fangs and wickedly curved talons of the monster that aimed to cut, to maim, and to kill.

Nevertheless, Geralt took pleasure in knowing that it was only for aesthetic reasons that Dandelion kept the horrid thing around, always needing to stroke his ego in any way he could. He turned again and made his way back to the others, where by the sound and looks of things they had begun to near the end of their conversation.

He chanced a quick glance out the nearest window, seeing the sky turn its alluring orange in the oncoming dusk, and he cleared his throat when he strode over to the table and gazed down at the three who were seated there with smiles on their faces.

“Hate to break up the party,” he said, grinning, “but don’t you have a performance to get ready tonight, Dandelion?”

His grin widened at the long-suffering groan Dandelion elicited, the bard bringing his elbows to the table so as to better rest his head in his hands.

“I do, don’t I?”

Zoltan guffawed, clapping him on the back.

“Ye got yerself into this mess, Dandelion. Ye can dig yerself back out. Always told you that mouth o’ yers gets you into trouble.”

“No matter, the girls know their places. I’ll send word to Polly in a moment and she’ll have everyone ready before you can say ‘cabaret’,” Dandelion continued, standing from his seat now and stretching his arms over his head. He sighed, looking satisfied and beaming at his friends when they too made to stand.

“In that case, I believe it would be best if both Geralt and myself leave you to practice on your rehearsals,” Regis smiled. “Thank you for the conversation, gentlemen. It truly was delightful.”

“Jus’ glad to see ye back again in one piece, Regis,” Zoltan chuckled.

“That makes two of us, my friend.”

“Geralt, Regis, will you two be watching tonight?” Dandelion asked, looking hopeful as he glanced at the pair. Geralt grunted.

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Truth be told, he wanted nothing more than to rest. Now that they had finally reached their destination, he felt that he deserved at least that much. He cast a sidelong glance at Regis.

They both deserved it.

Regis felt the other’s eyes on him, but he gave no sign that he was aware of it; rather, he merely inclined his head to Dandelion, and shook his head.

“Perhaps not tonight, Dandelion,” he said softly. “The road has been long, and I think a moment of rest is something that we need first and foremost. Would you happen to have a room available?”

Dandelion nodded.

“Say no more – I completely understand.” He stifled a yawn with the back of his hand and strode towards the bar, from behind which he had been keeping his ledger. He pulled the leather-bound book out with a great heave and a huff of breath, and flipped it open to scan his eyes across the crisp, neat pages. “I think we have a couple free right now… let’s see… that nobleman from Nazair just left this morning… oh, maybe not. He left his room in a bit of a mess…”

Geralt shifted where he stood and cleared his throat.

“Actually, we’ll just take the one room.”

Dandelion lifted his head, looking confused.

“But we have…” he checked the ledger again, "five available right now. I assure you, Geralt, all the other rooms are in perfect condition. If this is about that nobleman, he only—”

“Just the one, Dandelion. It’s easier.” He offered no more explanation than that. From beside him, Geralt could almost feel Regis’ growing amusement, the vampire turning his head and casting his eyes over to the far wall lined with Dandelion’s awards and wall-length painting, his lips twitching barely perceptibly as he did so.

Dandelion shrugged, waving the comment off and flattening the bare page with his hand as he picked up another quill that lay propped in an ink pot underneath the bar counter. Geralt watched Dandelion’s focus, his attention to detail, and briefly mused that he had never seen the man so enthralled in something other than his writing and his music before. The Chameleon had changed him, and he wondered if perhaps Priscilla really hadn’t been so far off with her initial belief that Dandelion did in fact have both his feet planted firmly on the ground after all.

Geralt felt pride tug at him yet again, and he couldn’t have been happier for his old friend.

“Well, there you are. The best room in the house is all yours, my friends.”

“Pretty generous of you,” Geralt blinked, arching a brow as he took the key that Dandelion threw to him. Dandelion snorted.

“Geralt, you know that if I had Emhyr in here himself, I’d kick him out of his room and give it to you in an instant.”

“Hope you won’t ever have to go that far.”

Dandelion grinned.

“Me either. It’d be bad for business, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Geralt scoffed.

“Something like that.”

He didn’t comment further, but it bothered the bard none. As Dandelion bid a quick farewell and dashed out the door with thoughts of finding both Priscilla and Polly on his mind, and as Zoltan offered a hearty clap to their backs and his goodbyes as he prepared to leave for the evening for a round of gwent with his dwarven kinsmen by the docks, Geralt felt the smile etch itself near permanently onto his lips.

He looked down at the key, then around at the tavern, and felt the last of his burdens ease their weight from his shoulders. He turned when he felt a hand touch his back, Regis’ hand a comforting warmth even through the layers of leather plated armour that separated his bare skin from those gentle fingers, and with a quiet suggestion from his lover to retire to the room that Dandelion had so freely given them, Geralt found himself agreeing with no hesitation whatsoever.

 

*

 

As it turned out in the end, the early evening saw Geralt and Regis staying to speak further with Dandelion after the performance that they had given pause to watch, if only briefly, when partaking in a quick meal. Priscilla had since returned after her journey into the city centre that day, and during the intermission she greeted Geralt with a bright smile and took great delight in being introduced to Regis.

The witcher noted that there had a been a sharp influx of people arriving to see the play, in fact doubly more so than the number of patrons who had filled the tavern that morning, and Dandelion was having a time of it at the bar as he booked rooms and helped waitresses with food and drink, never once failing to give a smile or spare a witty quip or throw words of gratitude to his patrons. It was an oddly domestic scene that played before Geralt as he stood and watched it all, and the numerous stolen glances that both Dandelion and Priscilla shared throughout the excitement and the masses of the crowd was not lost on him.

It was not lost on Regis, either, and as he spoke with Priscilla Geralt could see the way that Regis’ eyes softened when she laughed at something Dandelion whispered to her in passing as he prepared to hurry the dancers back on stage. They then said their goodbyes and departed to the relative peace and quiet of their room, just as the distinctive melodic thrum of lutes began to play, and Priscilla’s melodious voice pierced the hearts and souls of the captivated audience.

Geralt and Regis were both left in varying degrees of shock when they unlocked the door and entered; indeed, such luxury surpassed even that of the rooms within The New Narakort. The largest room in the establishment, newly refurbished and given the moniker the 'King Suite' by Dandelion, it was situated at the very top floor, and its balcony overlooked the lower streets of Novigrad’s Glory Lane, with the rising clock tower of Hierarch Square a grand sight to behold straight ahead. Geralt found that no other name for this room could have been more fitting; if Dandelion had indeed been intending to host leaders, kings and emperors within these very walls, surely no other would have been more apt.

It had certainly drawn their interest when they first strolled past the oaken furniture, the crimson velvet curtains and the intricately carved beds that were draped in silks so soft and fine that one could only guess at the astronomic fees Dandelion must have paid to obtain them. The fireplace had been lit and was a monolithic figure of marble that burst with richly coloured veins of grey and green upon its surface, and the warmth that circulated through the suite from the grate elicited a satisfied groan from the witcher, who had felt the early night’s chill creep into his very bones. Truly, Geralt felt that he had been invited into a private chamber of a palace, and for a minute he could not do much more than stand in the centre of the room, mute and unable to even dare touch anything.

"Damn."

Regis had laughed at that, and he busied himself with laying his satchel down. 

"It is certainly something."

Geralt unfastened his swords, leaving them upon the sheets of the nearest bed, the witcher then slowly working to unbuckle the straps of his armour. He watched as Regis cast an appreciative glance around him once more, and then strode out towards the balcony to lay his hands upon the balustrades and peer down. He remained there until Geralt joined him, and they at last found a moment to simply stop and relax. 

From that balcony, one could feel that they saw all that went on in the world’s largest city; rows of uneven roofs and ancient houses leaning and threatening to collapse under the weight of poverty, the middle class and their neatly trimmed hedges and gardens that could only just be seen as the city’s bridges sloped upwards, and the Temple District where wealth and prosperity was something to be envied by all others. Here, the lords and noblemen and women strolled leisurely throughout the day and night, unaware and uncaring of all that went on below them.

Above it all the fires of the Church still blazed; the light of Novigrad, the city’s burning heart and soul.

"Nice view," Geralt said quietly. He felt the breeze against his skin, pulling at his hair, and he breathed in deeply. 

"It is. The pride Dandelion has in this place shows," Regis agreed.

The night had drawn on, the moon now rising high in the sky and casting its silvery glow upon the streets of Novigrad. Geralt smiled, his eyes closing as he allowed his mind to slip into a void of empty thought, simply basking in the fresh late spring air that carried with it a sweet scent that was almost calming. They watched as two men laughed and walked the streets below, calling out into the night and singing a raunchy song that caught the ire of an old woman who stood sweeping the front of her shop. They could also still hear the music that played from down below, and see the glow of the lights from the windows upon the cobbled streets. 

"Well, Geralt," Regis announced after a moment, turning to look at the man beside him. "We have subjected ourselves to our friends' well-meant interrogations and have both emerged relatively unscathed. I daresay that calls for a celebration and some proper rest. We've taken a long journey to get here. It feels... well, rather surreal if I'm to be adequately frank."

Geralt considered this a moment.

"Mm... yeah."

"A man of many words, I see."

Geralt snorted, looking at his lover who remained watching him with fondness in his eyes. 

"You know what I mean." 

Regis nodded.

"I do. But now onto more important matters, for this impatience has been driving me utterly insane..." He then reached out, tracing Geralt's jaw with a gentle touch. Geralt fell the tug of that want, that need, resurface again within him and he was only far too happy to oblige to the kiss that Regis pulled him into. He felt the other's mouth on him and he tasted bliss, Geralt almost hissing in satisfaction as tongues flicked together; a promise of what was later to come. Geralt smiled, that promise not having left his mind the entire evening, and pressing another kiss to those lips, and another after that, he had to forcefully pull himself away and offer merely a wink before striding back inside. 

"Gonna get myself cleaned up a bit, first. Join me if you want."

"Tempting, Geralt. Very tempting."

Geralt chuckled, and he was pleased to see Regis' answering smile. 

Such opulence was grand, almost obnoxiously so, he thought as he once again took in their lodgings and all the finery that it contained. But the sight of the steaming hot bath prepared and waiting in the private corner did much to quell his doubts, and he stripped himself of the rest of his garments and approached. He could feel Regis’ eyes on him all the while, and he cast the vampire a grin over his shoulder before slipping behind the partition.

It was with a satisfied groan that Geralt slipped into the heat of the water a moment later, head tilting back against the rim of the tub from which he soaked his weary limbs. He remained like that for a while, washing the dirt of the day off his skin and reveling in the way his muscles loosened. In his state of lethargy his senses had sharpened, heightened in their awareness, and behind the partition screens that offered him privacy whilst he bathed he could hear the sound of footsteps gently pacing to and fro behind him.

The minutes ticked by, and Geralt had closed his eyes a moment as steam curled in mesmerising wisps around him. He took notice of the moment when those feet had stopped pacing, and indeed if he wasn't already so distracted by this relaxation afforded to him as he sighed softly and at last opened his eyes, he wouldn't have paid it any mind. Gazing at the polished wood ceiling and the portraits that lined the opposite wall, he wondered with amusement what those painted figures of Novigrad’s rich and vast history thought of seeing a witcher bathe before them, and he couldn’t resist a chuckle at the imagery such an idea brought.

"Gonna keep standing there?"

“Forgive me. It's rare to see Geralt of Rivia looking so at peace with the world… I thought my eyes had deceived me for a moment.”

Geralt scoffed, turning his head in the direction of Regis’ voice to find the vampire leaning against the partition, arms crossed over his chest and amusement written clear upon his face. His smile did not hide his fangs, and Geralt tilted his head to better observe his lover against the warm glow from the fireplace that tinged his pale skin a healthy, rosy hue. He found himself staring, distracted momentarily by the languid pose, the relaxed grin and Regis’ choice of wardrobe, his thick layered and belted tunic having been discarded in favour of a simple white undershirt that hung loosely from his willowy frame.

He grunted vaguely in appreciation, Geralt making no attempt to hide the way he drank up the sight and savoured it with utter gratification. Heat pooled in his loins, and he saw the promise in Regis’ eyes.

He reclined further back against the bath, hands dropping from the water to hang loosely outside, causing thin rivulets of water droplets to track down his muscled forearms onto the pristine carpets below. Regis did not need any further invitation to approach, and indeed he smirked when he saw Geralt’s calloused fingers twist and beckon him forwards.

“That really so hard to believe?” Geralt asked, his voice gruffer than he had intended at first, but he could not help himself. Such a sight his lover made, and he savoured it all hungrily. Regis’ lips curled higher upwards and he chuckled as he leant down, sitting himself carefully upon the rim of the bath and letting a long fingered hand drop down to glide gracefully atop the water’s surface.

Geralt watched, mesmerised, as the water rippled around his lover’s hand, Regis seeming to content himself with merely tracing idle patterns in its depths. He was close enough to touch, and Geralt did not hold back – lifting one hand to trace tenderly up the length of Regis’ neck, he pressed his fingers to his jaw and cupped his cheek. Regis closed his eyes for a moment, and he leant into the touch with a soft sigh falling from his lips.

“Given how our journey has been fraught with danger and intrigue since the moment we mounted horse and fled Toussaint’s borders, I would be inclined to say so, yes,” the vampire replied after a moment, looking at Geralt now with black eyes gazing fondly down at the man before him. “Don’t mistake my tone, Geralt. I rather enjoy seeing you so at ease. In fact, I do not think that anything could give me greater pleasure…” He trailed off, and Geralt watched as those eyes took him in, sweeping over his reclining form with an intensity that would have made the witcher shiver if he wasn’t so warm already.

Regis lifted his hand from the water, droplets falling from the tips of his long fingers as he reached forwards, tracing Geralt’s mouth with a light caress of his thumb. Geralt grinned again, pressing his lips against the digit and smiling wider still in satisfaction at the small hitch of breath he was awarded with.  

Regis waited a moment to speak, perhaps composing himself as much as he was able.

“It has certainly been an experience seeing both Dandelion and Zoltan again after these years.”

Geralt grunted his agreement, pressing another kiss to the corner of Regis’ palm as his lover continued to idly run his thumb across Geralt’s lips; moving his hand now, Regis tucked a stray lock of damp hair behind Geralt’s ear.

“That’s one way of putting it,” the witcher mused and tilted his head back again, “thought Dandelion’d come this close to pissing himself when he saw you.”

Regis laughed; a hearty chuckle that rumbled softly from his chest. Geralt pressed another kiss to the inside of his palm.

“Thankfully he did not,” the vampire replied, pausing a moment again as he regarded his lover with fondness once more. “But even I did not expect to see how successful they both are today. I’m glad that our poet friend has at last found a place where he seems to truly be inspired. You saw how he so eagerly jumped to the task of seeing us settled in. He takes his position seriously and with pride, and it shows in the care and attention to detail that seeps from these very walls around us. I daresay he’s found his true calling.”

Geralt hummed, eyes slipping closed again at the soothing touch of those dexterous fingers trailing his jaw.

“Don’t let him catch you saying that. The bard in him would get offended.”

“Not a word I say shall leave this room,” Regis solemnly answered, though his eyes appeared to glint with mischievous intent. He then arched a brow. “But I speak with all honesty, Geralt. As we conversed I found myself questioning if this truly was the same man who we ventured with all those years ago. Time and age has mellowed him.”

“Time and age does that to a lot of people,” Geralt noted. Regis nodded, humming and lowering his hand now to press lightly against Geralt’s chest, simply resting it there, right over the witcher’s heart. Geralt lifted his free hand and cupped those fingers, keeping them splayed against his marred skin. He then smirked. “Don’t go getting all sentimental on me now, Regis.”

Regis’ mouth twitched.

“I apologise, my dear. Melancholy is a rather easy trap for me to fall into.”

Geralt scoffed but otherwise remained silent, groaning softly in satisfaction as he slipped further back into the water. He could almost feel Regis’ amusement and could only imagine what a sight he must have made, but he gave it no mind.

“Thank Priscilla for Dandelion,” Geralt murmured after a moment. “If it wasn’t for her he’d still be chasing skirts and getting thrown out of windows.” He grinned at the thought. “I think he actually loves her. Don’t even know how they make it work – don’t wanna know. It’s a damn miracle either way.”

From the brief silence that ensued they paused as they heard the faint echo of cheers and applause down below, as no doubt the very woman they were discussing had finished her song. Geralt’s grin softened, and Regis smiled.  

“She is a wonderful woman, there can certainly be no doubt about that,” Regis agreed, and Geralt looked back at him. “Witty, charming, and talented beyond words – it’s no small wonder how he cherishes her so. Any man should count himself fortunate to have her companionship.”

Geralt stared at him, both brows raised.

“Should I be jealous?” He couldn’t resist the jibe, especially seeing how Regis smirked at his words.

“Jealousy does not become you, Geralt,” the vampire teased, and he leaned further in, Geralt sighing appreciatively as Regis spread both hands now on either side of his lover’s shoulders, raising himself ever so slightly to tower over the witcher with lips hovering agonisingly close to his own – so close, yet still not close enough to touch and claim. Geralt almost groaned in disappointment as he gazed up at him.  

“But you have nothing to fear, my dear,” Regis whispered softly, and Geralt felt the mood change, become charged with a most delicious tension that pulled, tugged and urged at that most base, primal side of him. He was reminded of Regis’ earlier promise yet again, and he snaked a hand into the loose folds of his lover’s shirt, fisting the cloth ever so gently and guiding Regis further down.

He saw something flash in those black eyes, something that had him hiss sharply through his teeth when Regis’ smirk grew tenfold and he pressed his warm mouth to the corners of Geralt’s own, purposely avoiding those lips that sought his kiss. Geralt’s hand tightened reflexively in the hold he had on Regis’ shirt, and his free hand surged upwards to dig into his lover’s back, causing the vampire to bite his lip in thinly veiled pleasure. He laughed shakily and ran a finger softly over Geralt’s lips once more, pulling back just enough to rest his brow against Geralt’s own. They gazed at one another, held captive in each other’s eyes.

“If I’m to be frank, that jealousy would be better suited to those who cannot see you as I do, Geralt,” Regis said lowly. He cupped Geralt’s chin, Geralt humming his approval and slipping his hand further down Regis’ spine in a silent response. Regis returned his mouth to the corner of Geralt’s own, whispering heatedly into his skin.

“To those who cannot taste your lips as I have…”

So close – if Geralt turned his head he would have his mouth at last, but Regis pulled back again and groaned. He mapped his fingers down the curve of Geralt’s neck, stopping once more at his chest, resting his hand almost possessively atop the witcher’s heart.  

“And to those who crave to have your touch but cannot have that longing satisfied...”

Geralt cussed under his breath, feeling himself harden at the reverent touches, the delicious words, the tantalising promise of kisses and the longing look in his lover’s eyes. He slumped further back against the bath, water sloshing sloppily around him as he did so, and he elicited a defeated laugh as he shook his head and smiled into the kiss that Regis at last awarded him.

Eyes closed and Geralt sighed into those lips, feeling that yearning addiction for each taste ease into something more manageable, something now sated and calmed when he cupped Regis’ cheek and pulled him further down yet again. Water dripped down their skin like crystalline veins, and Regis chuckled when Geralt eventually allowed him to pull back, the vampire looking down to see his shirt made a sopping mess.

He didn’t mind; rather, he could not deny how much he warmed to the look of desire in Geralt’s eyes when the witcher took in the way that shirt clung to his pale chest, the fabric all but transparent now and leaving nothing to the imagination. It was much the same as the look that Regis knew he had been unable to fully hide when he had first glimpsed Geralt naked and utterly relaxed as he bathed. He shivered, and it had nothing to do with the state of his shirt.

“And who would these people be?” Geralt asked, amused now despite the gravelly tone his voice had taken. He pressed his hand to Regis’ stomach, dancing his fingers slowly higher as he palmed his skin through his clothing, utterly unable to resist the way Regis’ eyes slid closed at the contact.

“Ah, many a young maiden who appeared tonight, drawn to the performance in eager hopes to catch sight of the famous witcher who has been forever immortalised in song and story,” Regis grinned, though with some difficulty with the way Geralt’s hand continued to touch and feel. “I took a moment to observe the crowd as you wandered, and it brought me an equally great deal of amusement to see hopeful eyes turn away, abashed and ashamed as you paid them no heed.”

Geralt considered that a moment, unable to recall if he had been aware of such supposed advances.

“Huh. Must’ve had other things on my mind.”

“Oh? And what were these ‘other things’?”

Geralt sought his lips and found them again, Regis threading both hands through Geralt’s hair now in an effort to get closer as Geralt moved and shifted forwards, leaning up out of the bath. Water coursed freely down his scarred body which glistened in the warm light from the fire, and Regis groaned softly into his lover’s mouth as his hands wandered and gripped tightly down Geralt’s back, sharpened nails digging into his wet skin with great care.

“Been thinking about what you said earlier, for starters…” Geralt grinned, relishing in another languid kiss as his hands fisted in Regis’ hair and cupped his chin, keeping him pinned in place as he sought slow kiss after slow kiss. “Relaxing in our room… been thinking about it a lot…”

“Hm. That is quite apparent.” Regis smiled, stepping back only so as to fully allow Geralt to step out of the bath, the witcher not caring for any towel to wipe him down as the vampire surged forward and claimed his lips once more. Geralt laughed into the kiss, the grin reaching his eyes as he slipped both hands down now to slide under his lover’s shirt, his hands tightening around Regis’ hips and pulling him further towards him. He resisted the urge to shiver from the cool air hitting his damp skin, and focused instead on the very real warmth in front of him, pressing against him and claiming his mouth hungrily.

“So what d'you say, Regis?” Geralt murmured, mouth trailing towards the edges of Regis’ lips and marking a small trail of quick, deep kisses across his jaw, groaning at the feel of those hands tightening against his back and clawing down. “We have all night.”

Long hands came to a pause at the base of his spine, and Geralt sucked in a soft breath when he felt them suddenly drag down his wet skin to clamp high upon his thighs. He bucked at the action, distinctly aware of the state of his very naked arousal as Regis pressed even closer still against him. Regis hummed, eliciting a throaty groan when Geralt mouthed along the curve of his neck.

“Now who is the one propositioning whom, here?” He breathed. Geralt didn’t have a reasonable response to that – not in words, anyway. He found his lips claimed in a violent surge of passion, and he groaned his delight at how that mouth he adored sucked and pressed to his own, Regis soothing his lips in-between each kiss with a gentle swipe of his tongue. A shiver coursed down Geralt’s spine and he bowed his back, eyes rolling upwards when he felt those dexterous hands tighten around him and dig deep into his skin. He cussed, moaning freely as his cock twitched eagerly in need, and Geralt took great pleasure in reaching up and shedding the vampire free from his shirt.

Regis laughed, fangs gleaming in the firelight as he grinned widely at Geralt’s eager enthusiasm, and he merely let Geralt do as he wished, glad to feel the warmth from the fireplace against his bare skin now as the wet garment was pulled from his dampened chest. Geralt cast it carelessly aside, ignoring the feigned look of chastisement that Regis threw his way. In a single moment those golden cat-like eyes turned hooded and dark, and Regis’ amusement gave way to raw pleasure at the sight, heat pooling delightfully so in his groin as the witcher placed both hands to Regis’ chest, circling them down around his waist now and holding tightly as he lunged once more for the vampire’s mouth and eagerly claimed his prize.

He guided his lover towards the silken sheets of the bed that lay alluringly close by, drinking in the moans and chuckles that spilled from Regis’ throat – his voice hoarse and rasped with a need that spoke of sultry promises and much more.

Geralt was panting now, excitement budding in his chest that caused his heart to lurch and leap with each step forwards. The edge of the mattress hit the back of Regis’ legs and the vampire wasted not a single moment more; he pulled away, eyes seeming to flash in the glow from the fire, and placing a hand to the back of Geralt’s neck, stray droplets from the witcher’s white hair and scarred body splattering to the sheets, Regis lay back and pulled his lover atop him, giving himself over completely to the man who consumed him.

Geralt was all tongue and teeth, eagerly licking deep into the vampire’s mouth as Regis groaned and gasped, bucking his hips upwards to help Geralt slide his breeches down so as to pull the offending clothing off; they too disappeared to the ground with little care, and as Geralt shifted back to take in the sight of his lover bared before him, pale skin flushed and wet and cock standing proud and thick between his legs, he had to reach down and fist a hand tightly around his own prick to stop the overwhelming need to rut and fuck.

He needed patience, or as close enough as he could manage. But it was difficult, especially so when he saw Regis calmly gazing up at him with those deep black eyes the shade of burning obsidian. Regis heard the irregular heartbeat deep within Geralt’s chest, heard how it thudded a pounding, sensuous song that was as mesmerising as the beautiful vision of him wet and glistening before him – so beautiful, in fact, that Regis at last knew what it meant to be utterly, thoroughly, and so completely _addicted_.

He swallowed thickly, unable to stop the hitch in his breath.

He grew parched, his tongue eager to taste him, all of him; to gaze upon him and drink him down with both eyes and mouth until this man was all that he could breathe, think and feel. It was not enough to love him, he realised. His love surpassed even the bloodlust that he had harboured for so many years – surpassed all cravings above and beyond that which blood had given him. He had been struggling with it every day since Toussaint, and indeed every day for the lifetime he had known Geralt before that.

Looking at Geralt now, gazing deep into his captivating eyes, Regis felt that very love eat him up, tear him apart, burn him alive and tenderly, agonisingly piece him back together again inch by inch. 

He knew he had started to shake, his fingers betraying him as they twitched at Geralt’s sides, hands grasping deeply at Geralt’s hips like the addict he was, needing his latest fix and to drown himself in his craving until he could no longer think nor feel.

 _I love you_ , he wanted to say again, as he had every day and would continue to do so until time itself ceased to exist. But it wasn’t enough – it would never _be_ enough.

Geralt understood. Of course he did. It never ceased to surprise Regis just how much his lover could sympathise with merely a glance, when not even words could truly explain. The witcher smiled now, groaning softly as he leant down to press a single, soft, slow kiss to the vampire’s waiting mouth. Just one kiss was all it took, and Regis felt himself grow calm.

“Love you, too,” Geralt whispered against his lips, and Regis chuckled weakly into that kiss that stole all thought from him. He was left to lie there, dazed, blinking up at the witcher as he pulled back to stand from the bed, leaving a gaping abyss between them which both yearned so desperately to close.

Geralt worked quickly, finding the satchel that Regis had lain down upon the nearby writing desk, and he brought it over. He lowered it onto the ground, unclasping each buckle and rummaging through its contents, all the while busying himself with Regis’ mouth as his lover grinned and pulled him back down in a fevered kiss that left them breathless, hearts pounding.

It was with some degree of effort that Geralt at last found what he had been searching for; fingers knocking against various phials and small bottles, he broke their kiss to look down at the vial he held in his hand. Pulling it out, he smirked, satisfied at Regis’ pleased smile, and he carefully placed the satchel onto the ground before straightening back up again.

“I knew it,” he said, arching a brow. Regis laughed, a low, clear sound that had Geralt’s heart beat sluggishly all over again. His eyes softened and he pressed his hands to his lover’s chest, dragging them down to hold him by the hips as he positioned himself with legs spread either side of his waist. He gazed down upon him, utterly enthralled by the mirth in his lover’s eyes that warmed him deep to the very core.

Regis’ laughter soon trailed off and he sighed softly, lifting his hands to slide them slowly along Geralt’s muscled forearms, his fingertips gently brushing each swollen scar and puckered line of flesh. He saw the way Geralt shivered, and what a sight he made: wet hair plastered to his cheeks and neck and eyes dark and intense – a delicious image of debauchery that caused Regis’ cock to twitch impatiently where it lay trapped between them both. He bucked his hips weakly, biting his lip at the pleasure it brought them both when Geralt ground instinctively back against him, panting as he did so.

Regis reached down, taking them both in hand and gasping when Geralt grunted and fell forward, shaking as he splayed both hands along either side of the pillow under Regis’ head.

“What can I say, my dear?” Regis smiled, mustering a smirk of his own as he mouthed Geralt’s jaw, pressing slow, light kisses upon his neck and shoulder as he pumped his hand harder, faster, eyes snapping shut at the blissful friction awarded as their cocks rubbed together, sharing fluids and heat. He curled his tongue, darting it against the line of Geralt’s jaw before sucking slowly upon the lobe of his ear, and Geralt cussed sharply as he jerked and made short work of uncapping the vial to slick his hand, coating his fingers thoroughly whilst ravishing Regis with his mouth; lips pressing hotly together and tongues swirling eagerly with a raging hunger, Regis pulled Geralt atop him again and groaned his answering pleasure. “I informed you that… some of my supplies had been running low…” It was getting hard to speak, and Regis was grateful for it for once.

Geralt hummed, his voice husky and low, and he bucked viciously into Regis’ hand when a particularly artful twist of his lover’s fingers had him cry out on the verge of spilling himself. He moaned his name, head thrown back, and in the face of that blissful display Regis at last ceased to think at all. He felt the heat spread through him, and he would have almost reached his peak there too if he hadn’t forced himself to stop moving his hand a moment, keeping them both on the tormenting edge of bliss.

He waited for Geralt to come back to him, Geralt doing so with a teasing quick grind of his hips downwards that pulled a surprised huff of breath from Regis’ mouth. Geralt smiled, groaning again at the renewed swift, sharp stab of pleasure to his loins, and he leant down to press a kiss to his lover’s brow.

“You’re not gonna help me make this last much longer,” he muttered. Regis whispered his name, tilting his mouth upwards to press another kiss to his lover’s neck and thoroughly enjoying the view when Geralt pulled back and sat before him, legs still locked around either side of his waist.

“You ask so much of me, my dear...” Regis trailed his eyes first from the lewd sight of their cocks pressed tightly together, leaking and aching in need, and then raised his gaze further upwards to take in the sight of that broad and scarred chest rising and falling with each heavy intake of breath. He then settled his eyes at last upon Geralt’s face, and he almost moaned to see the glaze of pleasure, of love in those golden irises that in that moment seemed to shine from the light of the fire behind him. He bit his lip, feeling his eyes grow hooded and dark. “I cannot help myself.”

That was apparently all that Geralt needed to hear.

The vampire threw his head back, hand falling away from their weeping lengths to claw at the silken bedsheets, eyes slipping closed and kiss-swollen lips parting with a soft sigh when Geralt, still keeping his eyes locked unblinkingly upon his lover, smiled slowly and ran a slickened finger teasingly between the inside of Regis’ thigh. He pressed it to his entrance and began to pump it slowly within him, Geralt visibly shuddering and taking a moment to swallow the lump in his throat when Regis bucked upwards, urging him further in.

Geralt hissed, feeling the warmth around his hand and savouring that most delicious reaction, and presently he added another finger, then another. He drank in Regis’ responses, all of them. Each rise and fall of his chest… each flick of his tongue against his lips as the vampire wet his parched mouth… the way he fisted the mattress and bared his neck… and the satisfaction, the utmost pleasure that crossed his face when Geralt pulled out, lubricated his eager cock with some more of the oil, and pushed inside.

He had meant to start slow, truly, he had. And at first he did, Geralt rocking his hips in a gentle, well-timed rhythm as Regis smiled and reached a hand upwards to cup his lover’s cheek, Geralt pressing kiss after kiss to the inside of his wrist as he thrust and swayed. But it consumed him, this need, this urge to love and give his body to him in ways that would surely not see either of them walking out into the light of day the next morn.

Another thrust, and another groan from Regis’ lips, both hands dropping to Geralt’s back and clawing into the sensitive skin in the ways that he knew Geralt craved saw him finally lose control, tip over the edge and stand on the precipice of oblivion. He swore sharply, Regis’ name gasping in breathless prayers from his lips as he fell forwards hungrily upon his mouth, the vampire all too eager to have his moans swallowed and his body taken as each thrust gained quick momentum.

 _I love you,_ he wanted to whisper, to plea, to beg and proclaim all in one, and as Geralt panted into his mouth and tightened his hold around his lover’s body, digging his fingers into the flesh of the vampire’s thighs to keep him close as he fucked him, Regis knew that his thoughts had been said aloud. He did not care, however. The pleasure was too great, and his heart was full.

So he said it again, and again.

And again.

Geralt moaned, hearing those words fall like a song from the vampire’s lips, and there was nothing he would not do to keep hearing them every second, every minute, every hour, every day. He whispered it back, his voice joining Regis’ and he sucked in a sharp breath when his lover surged up and clung to him, hands flying to his hair and skin as he gripped his face and plunged his tongue into his mouth as he rose and fell in time with each of Geralt’s sharp, desperate thrusts.

Their lips parted for a moment, allowing them time to catch their breath as best they could, and twin chuckles resounded from their mouths as they trailed kisses and mouthed down bared necks and shoulders, hands tightening their hold on skin in vain attempts to try and become closer, to try and press into one another as much as the slightest millimetre apart allowed. Hips bucked and swayed and Geralt bowed his head and kissed Regis’ breast atop his heart, feeling how the vampire’s cock twitched and pulsed against their stomachs and moaning as his member gave a tell-tale answering lurch deep inside his lover’s core.     

Regis hissed, feeling his pending climax as a fog that settled upon his thoughts and eyes, clouding his vision and dulling his mind. It called to him, beguiled him with promise, and he knew that only Geralt could possibly make him feel this way; make him lose control and relish in it. He loved him all the more, and when Geralt groaned sharply and reached down between them, urging Regis over that edge, wanting to see him shake and shudder and call his name, Regis was only far too happy and far too deliciously lost in his amorous haze to give in and let himself go.

He slumped against Geralt’s shoulder, dragging his hands down the witcher’s damp back as he blinked and moaned softly into the crook of his neck, pressing quick kisses and whispering words of gratitude as he waited for the wave of release to subside. Geralt kissed his cheek, then his brow, lost in the sight his lover had made baring his body as he had, his back arching as he came.

He savoured in the feel of his seed against their chests, taking morbid delight in how it cooled against his skin, and it was with a long, shaken moan that Geralt swiftly followed; he wrapped his arms around his lover, breathing heavily as he fell against him, and Regis welcomed the man lightly pushing them both back against the mattress so as to better regain their strength.

Regis could feel Geralt’s hair brush his cheeks as it fanned around them, and he lifted a hand to tuck some stray locks behind his ear, smiling as he pressed a final single, long kiss to those swollen and chapped lips. Geralt smiled into the kiss, and when they at last parted once again he cupped the vampire’s jaw and straightened up, preparing to slowly pull out.

He was stopped when Regis shook his head, pulling Geralt back down again so as to whisper against his mouth.

“No… not yet.” He slid a hand down his stomach, pressing it hard against the spot where he could feel Geralt still deep within. He wanted to feel him a little longer, to bask in the afterglow until they started again. For that was where he surely saw this night headed – and his heart beat quickly at the tantalising thought.

Geralt’s eyes flashed and he licked his lips, desire brimming swiftly once again within his heated gaze.

“Mm, if you say so…” His voice was like gravel, coarse and rough, and Regis smiled lazily in appreciation of the delicious sound.

“I do.”

Geralt grinned, contenting himself with laying waste to Regis’ neck with gentle licks and kisses, enjoying the soft sighs he pulled from his lover’s throat. And then they grasped at limbs and soft sighs turned into vocal gasps of pleasure as desire took hold and claimed them once again, as it would continue to do so completely, utterly, as the city slept around them and night crept into dawn.

 

*

 

When he roused from his slumber, Geralt was distinctly aware of two things: the sunlight that drifted through the velvet curtains as he blinked and gazed out the far window told him, first of all, that it was late morning. The sounds of the bustling market stalls and the chatter of the crowd far below rose up to greet his ears where he lay wrapped in silk sheets, and he inwardly scoffed at the very thought itself, Geralt finding it somewhat humorous to be in such a state of luxury.

The second, and by far the most important of the two, was that he was warm from the heat of the body pressed to his, and he snaked a hand around to cup the long fingered hand that had since wrapped around his chest in the night. He could feel his touch returned by the man beside him, and Regis dropped his arm to allow Geralt to sit up, yawning and stretching his bare arms above his head.

He groaned lightly in satisfaction at the pop of his joints, the stretch of his muscles a cathartic feeling that left him clear minded and alert, his senses still running on their highs after last night’s rounds of delirious, desperate lovemaking. He couldn’t resist the smirk on his lips; such a night was truly one to be remembered, and even now he still felt the faint flickers of desire coil like a snake yet again within his core.

He turned his head, seeking his lover and finding him reclining back against the pillows beside him, Regis appearing distracted by something within his hands as he otherwise gave no inclination that he was aware that Geralt was now staring. The witcher arched a brow and straightened up further, savouring the ache in his loins as he moved, and he could now at last see what it was that had the vampire so captivated.

It was a small thing, shining silver in the reflection of the sunlight, and was intricately carved in a curious design – bearing close resemblance to what Geralt always thought was two serpentine figures intertwining and consuming one another. From where he was looking at it now, he found he could not be so sure on that. The ring and the symbol it bore was not of this world, that much he knew and was certain of.

“Thought you gave that to Dettlaff,” he said, ignoring how gruff his voice sounded from both sleep and how he had near cried himself hoarse the previous night. Regis stirred, blinking out of his reverie and casting Geralt a small smile as he turned his head to look at him. He hummed, nodding.

“I did. He no longer needs it,” he said quietly, his brows furrowing together lightly in a contemplative expression. That caught Geralt’s attention and he frowned. Regis noticed and eased Geralt’s worries, shaking his head and eliciting a chuckle.

“All is fine, my love. He saw no reason to keep it, thus gave it back to me. I actually found it among my supplies; I had forgotten I’d kept it in here.” He indicated his satchel that was lying neatly at the edge of the bed, half open. Geralt reached over, taking the ring from Regis’ hand as he inspected it more closely.

“Not like you to go forgetting things, Regis. Must be getting old,” he murmured as he tilted the ring this way and that, marvelling at the weight of it within his palm. It was solid craftsmanship, and it felt as if the very metal itself hummed with a foreign energy that caused his medallion to tremble ever so slightly by his breast. He whistled lowly, impressed. “Never really noticed it before, but the thing’s kinda nice.”

Regis watched him with amusement growing in his eyes, the vampire reaching out to brush white locks away from Geralt’s face as his lover contented himself with inspecting the relic.

“You would be surprised to know that I forget things just as anyone,” Regis smirked, though his smile soon softened again. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? I cannot begin to explain to you what it’s made of; such craftsmanship is wholly unfamiliar even to me, given that I myself have never set foot in the realm that my ancestors claimed as their home. But it has a curious magical aura to it… however with all due respect to your talents, my dear, I doubt that even a witcher would be as finely-tuned to such magic as a higher vampire is.”

Geralt waved the comment off, passing the ring back to Regis.

“Medallion’s trembling a little, but that’s about it. Barely even noticeable.”

Regis nodded.

“Hm, yes. I suspect that the centuries of separation from the world it was made in have begun to take their toll. No matter.”

Geralt eyed him curiously, the corner of his lips twitching.

“What’s this all about, anyway? Last thing I expected to see this morning was you feeling melancholy over a piece of jewellery.”

Regis laughed.

“A piece of jewellery that, regardless, remains substantial in value to me,” he said. He then gave pause, and Geralt saw another contemplative look cross his pale features, as if Regis was deliberating within himself what next to say. He continued again at length, clearing his throat before speaking: “This morning I recalled something said in passing conversation with Dandelion yesterday evening… where he asked how long we had been intending to stay here in Novigrad…”

“Haven’t figured that out yet,” Geralt agreed, sighing. Regis offered another small smile.

“All in due time, Geralt. I wouldn’t worry about it at this present moment.” He paused again. “But, in saying that… I found myself wondering. This notion of ‘home’, of somewhere to stay… it’s a curious thing. Here we are, travelling in search of a final destination. A place to at last rest and feel a sense of achievement at laying down our arms in favour of a roof over our heads at night. This… item…” He looked at the ring again, and in his eyes Geralt now saw sadness.

He clasped his hand over Regis’ own, narrowing his eyes at him.

“Regis…”

The vampire ignored him, shaking his head.

“It’s a sign of a home that I have never known, and will never return to. It’s an unsettling concept, one that I was indeed pondering over when you awoke. You can’t feel it Geralt, you simply cannot, but this is crafted from a living metal that has no comparison to any here in your world. It… well, it ‘sings’, for one. A constant reminder of possibly the last remnant of a place that is no longer within reach.”

“… Sings? How?” Geralt tightened his hand around his lover’s, his fingers brushing the cool metal of the ring held within the vampire’s grasp.

Regis tilted his head back against the bedframe, sighing as he closed his eyes.

“Not as how you would describe it. I… cannot explain it, Geralt. Not completely. Just know that it stirs within me a great yearning that I do not think will heal fully with time. Perhaps I was too quick to give it away, ignoring its significance in favour of believing that its importance was only due to the ideals of one vampire who saw humans differently to others of our kind.”

Geralt froze, unsure as to where Regis was going with this. He tucked his thumb under Regis’ jaw with his free hand, forcing the vampire to look at him. Regis opened his eyes and he looked fatigued, though he managed a smile that soothed Geralt’s heart regardless.

“And yet…” Something in Regis’ face changed, and indeed it seemed to Geralt that the vampire had at last worked out what it was that had been puzzling him so; his expression cleared, grew calm and determined, and he gripped Geralt’s hand in return with a newfound certainty. “Such thoughts and wistful longings pale in comparison to what I feel when I look at you, Geralt. I think, at last, that I have finally begun to understand.”

Geralt felt something press into his palm and he looked down, eyes widening when he saw the ring nestled snugly in his grip. He jerked his head back up, blinking.

“What? Regis, you can’t give me this.” He couldn’t accept it; it meant too much to the vampire before him. Geralt knew what it was like to live as a vagabond, wandering the roads with naught but a title to your name and little else. Regis had a home, or the memory of one. Geralt had nothing – not anymore. Corvo Bianco was gone, and it was only a short matter of time until Kaer Morhen followed suit.

So he was surprised when Regis merely shook his head.

“Geralt…” And Regis chuckled, closing Geralt’s fist back around the ring, “have you heard tell of that age-old adage? A rather delightful little phrase, which I only now truly came to realise. ‘Home is where the heart is.’ Nothing could be more adequate, given the current situation and the rather unique circumstances that have led us to this moment together. There is _nothing_ I would not do for you. There is nothing that I would not do to be by your side, constantly. I love you – truly, it is a madness that claims me, excites me whenever the thought crosses my mind and springs to my lips. And so, I want you to have this…”

Geralt felt fingers move on his palm, and he could only stare, shocked into silence, as he felt Regis slip the ring onto his finger. The vampire smiled, such thorough satisfaction bleeding from his eyes that Geralt was roused from his silence at the sight of it, the witcher exhaling a slow breath and chuckling hoarsely as Regis closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to the metal that sat proudly on his hand.

He moved up, and his lips found Geralt’s in a kiss that was equally chaste, and stirred the dull ache of passion deep within Geralt’s core once again.

“You know what that looks like, right?” Geralt murmured, pressing another kiss to those pale lips. Then another, and another after that. He felt Regis smile against his mouth before pulling away.

“Ah yes, you humans and your curious beliefs that a physical object is what binds two lovers together in an act of matrimony… I never quite understood that, either. It seems rather superfluous if, in a moment of rage or discontent, one can just as easily take it off and throw it to the ground and denounce all ties to their significant other.” He then laughed, seeing the growing look of amusement on Geralt’s face, as signified by the constant arching of his brow.

“Geralt, I merely wished for you to keep this. Think of it what you will, but that ring is something that holds great importance to me. I believe it only fair that it lie with the one whose own importance to myself far outshines anything that I can ever rightly express with words.”

“Regis…”

“Yes, Geralt?”

Geralt shook his head, grinning as he cupped the vampire’s chin and pulled him in for another slow, chaste kiss.

“Stop talking.”

Regis scoffed, his chuckles resounding in his chest as he allowed himself to be lain back against the sheets once again. But despite the witcher’s earlier adamant refusal of his lover’s gift, looking up into Geralt’s eyes now, he saw only a sense of calm and satisfaction in his gaze.

He smiled again, and when Geralt returned the smile, it had been the widest Regis had ever seen it.

 

*

 

“Sheesh, it’s about time you two showed up! I’ve been waiting to see you all morning!”

The bard’s greeting was joined by an impatient wave of his hand, Dandelion having looked over his shoulder behind him the moment he had heard footsteps upon the stairs. His blue eyes had lit up with a show of relief and annoyance at his friends’ late arrival, and with a barely contained huff he turned back to his work, quill flying furiously back and forth across the loose leaves of parchment that littered the table in all manner of chaos and disorder as he resumed his writing.

“Uh oh,” Geralt muttered. Regis’ lips quirked and he cleared his throat.

“Our apologies, Dandelion. Geralt and I were discussing some matters.”

Dandelion ignored him, merely jabbing his free hand to the opposite seats at the table to show them where they could sit themselves. Geralt caught a passing look at what his friend was writing as he walked by, and he was surprised to see the ledger that Dandelion had been so studiously filling in the previous evening.

“Dandelion? Everything ok?”

Now that he studied him closely as he sat down, Geralt saw the darkened rings under the bard’s eyes, and the way he furrowed his brow so harshly that deep lines crossed his forehead. Dandelion yawned and nodded his head, letting out a long sigh as he sat back and threw his arms over his head to stretch.

“You two missed, quite possibly, the _greatest_ show last night,” Dandelion said, looking immensely proud of himself as he rolled his shoulders and picked up his quill again. “Priscilla was amazing. We had half of Novigrad within these walls! That’s the largest crowd we’ve ever had! Money was flowing, my friends, and I think The Chameleon is set up for life.”

Geralt tried to look enthused, he really did. But he honestly didn’t care all that much.

“That’s… nice.”

Dandelion nodded, too distracted by his bookkeeping to notice the lacklustre comment.

“Dandelion, when was the last time you managed to get yourself some rest?” Regis asked quietly. It was unusual to see the bard in such a state of disarray; he had even abandoned his cap in favour of tugging at his hair in various stages of frustration, as could be indicated by the small clumps and unkempt strands that flew from his brow. Dandelion blinked and looked up at the vampire.

Geralt leant further in, and now that Regis had brought it up, the witcher noticed that it hadn’t just been the excitement of the previous evening’s successful performance that had been the resulting cause of Dandelion’s sleepless night; he could smell the faintest hint of vodka around him, too. He blinked, impressed. One mug of spirit and normally the bard would have been out like a light. As it was, he knew that his friend had had more than one. He reminded himself to consult Zoltan about this at a later stage. 

“Yesterday morning,” Dandelion admitted, and he placed his quill back down and uttered a short laugh. “I’m a mess.”

“Uh huh…” Geralt had noticed something when Dandelion had moved his hand, something hidden underneath the loose pages of parchment. His eyes narrowed and a sense of deep, foreboding dread flooded him. He knew that Regis had seen it too, and he heard the exasperated sigh the vampire elicited as Geralt reached out across the table.

Dandelion realised what his friend was about to do only far too late. His blue eyes widened, and he tried to swipe the book out of Geralt’s grip, but luck was not on his side.

“Hey!”

Geralt groaned audibly, flicking open the leather-bound journal to see page after page scrawled across in his friend’s cursive script. He could see numerous paragraphs written, crossed out, and re-written again, and judging by the way his words grew more erratic and disjoined, this had been what had actually kept Dandelion up all night, and the bard had hastily hidden it when he had heard the two approach. 

“Regis, you said you wanted to know what happened to ’Half a Century of Poetry’,” he announced as he flicked to the last few pages and scanned his eyes across the text. “Think I’ve got your answer.”

“Geralt…”

Geralt ignored Dandelion’s warning and started to read.

“‘…the sun had set and shrouded Novigrad in its darkened haze when my good friend Geralt decided to at last pay a visit; it had been many a long year since the witcher and I had parted ways, and I was keen to hear of what had become of him in the sun-kissed duchy of Toussaint, since I had been personally requested by duchess Anna Henrietta to see to his immediate release from the ducal prisons, where he had been mistakenly incarcerated.’” He narrowed his eyes with each word, and he could feel Regis smirk beside him. Dandelion appeared to shrink back in his seat, hands buried in his hair yet again. Geralt did not relent.

“‘—I did not think that I had ever seen such profound happiness on his face as I had in that moment when we clasped hands and greeted each other with such overwhelming joy, but, as you will soon discover, dear reader, that joy was soon trounced by the wondrous surprise that presented itself to me. For there, standing aside the witcher just as he had when our hansa was whole and unfettered from the chains of responsibility and hardship that had seen the tragic loss of our friends in that nightmarish castle, was someone who I did not expect to see. The vampire, Emiel Regis, our old and dear friend, was alive. Such a moment it was! He was overjoyed to see my humble self once again, and as I proudly told Geralt, who had expressed his doubts to me time and time again, he should never have worried at his apparent demise. It is impossible to truly kill a higher vampire, after all. In fact, I do not think that Geralt himself even knew of that fact as he was not aware of it before I informed him—’” He stopped, lowering the book and fixing a livid glare upon the bard.

“Dandelion, what the hell is this crap?”

Dandelion took the book back, making sure to slam it shut upon the table as he sighed.

“This ‘crap’, Geralt, is something that’ll be my legacy one day.”

Geralt snorted.

“If you’re telling a story, at least tell it how it really happened.”

“You have absolutely no idea about the literary arts, do you?” Dandelion crossed his arms over his chest, reclining back and looking icily at the witcher. “It doesn’t have to be _real_. People love a good story, and the less accurate it is, the better the response it gets.”

“Which explains why you like to make yourself the hero a lot,” Geralt muttered under his breath, and he grinned when Regis coughed politely and turned his head, hiding his smile. Dandelion had still heard him, however, and he sighed as he rubbed a palm across his face.

“No offence Geralt, but it’s what the people want to hear. Believe me, they warm up to you a lot more when they read you as an ill-fated monster slayer who’s just as flawed as everybody else.”

Geralt took interest at that, and he arched a brow as he too crossed his arms over his chest. Even Regis had turned his head to gaze at Dandelion thoughtfully.

“But I _am_ flawed, Dandelion,” Geralt reminded him. “Never said I wasn’t.”

Dandelion looked ready to respond, but he was cut off by Regis who had chosen that moment to speak.

“You seem to be uncertain of your work, my friend,” the vampire announced, drawing Dandelion’s attention to him. “Never in my time knowing you have I seen you despair so much about your writing.”

Dandelion groaned.

“It’s that obvious, is it?”

Regis nodded.

“As obvious as the fact that perhaps more than a couple of drinks had been in order in the early hours of this morning.”

It was then that Dandelion shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking downcast as he flexed his hands upon the table.

“I don’t know… there’s just been so much going on lately,” he eventually admitted. “I’ve got a business – a real, proper business. Can you believe it? _Me?”_ He grinned, chuckling before his gaze softened. “And then there’s Priscilla… you’ve both spoken to her – you both know how… incredible she is. I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s time to make it serious?”

Just like that, the mood shifted. Geralt blinked, a slow smile curling to his lips. Regis, for his part, didn’t look surprised in the slightest, and merely smiled with understanding in his eyes. Dandelion picked up his quill, idly running his fingers through the feather, all the while his face setting into a firm expression of determination.

“Dandelion? Are you actually going to…?” Geralt didn’t know how to finish off his sentence, and let his words trail off in the hopes that Dandelion could understand his meaning. It appeared the bard did, for he nodded.

“I am,” he announced. “I need to get everything perfect, though. Can’t just rush in all at once – Geralt, stop looking at me like that. I know I haven’t been the best or the most responsible guy around, but… there’s something about her that makes me want to try. She deserves happiness, and I want to be the man to give that to her.” He looked satisfied, and his eyes appeared to glow with pride.

Geralt whistled lowly, still uncertain as to how to fully respond.

“Congratulations are in order, I think,” Regis smiled. “You would make her a fine husband, Dandelion.”

“I can only hope so, my friend,” Dandelion replied, and he let out a slow breath. “I can only hope so.” He then looked back down at his journal, and waved it in the air as he picked it up. “I wanted to finish this off. It’s been rewritten – all of it. I had a lot of time to work on it before The Chameleon opened up, but now… well. Let’s just say writing novels is harder than it used to be. But when I think about who I want to read this particular story to... I don't know. I wonder what it would be like to see a child looking up at me, pointing to the page and asking me: ‘Dad! Did this really happen?!’” Dandelion grinned weakly.

“And then I’d say it did, all of it. Because it’s worth it to see someone’s eyes light up when they hear how their father and his friends singlehandedly took down those Nilfgaardian soldiers on the Yaruga, and how we searched the entire land for a girl who was like a daughter to each and every one of us. ‘This is your sister’, I’d say to them when I tell them about Ciri. ‘She’s all grown up now and she fights monsters and keeps everyone safe.’ And I want to look up and see Priscilla standing there, pride in her eyes at something I had a hand in.”

There was a brief silence, broken only by Dandelion scratching his quill intermittently across the top of the page he’d just opened to.

“But I don’t know where I should start. I wanted three chapters, to begin with. Just three. And then three became four, and it took me months. _Months_ , when normally I could write something like this in weeks…” He slumped against the back of the chair again.

Geralt shook his head, rousing himself from his stunned reverie at last.

“Dandelion, if only you could hear yourself now.”

The bard scoffed.

“Don’t remind me.”

Geralt waved the comment off, shaking his head again.

“Not what I meant. You’re actually _thinking_ about something other than yourself for once. Believe it or not but I think this place has done more good for you than bad.”

Dandelion did not look entirely enthused.

“You’re terrible at compliments, Geralt. I hope you know that.”

Geralt grinned.

“That’s been said.”

Regis chuckled at the scene, leaning forwards in his seat and crossing his arms atop the table. He looked at Dandelion again, then drew the open journal towards himself, flicking through each page of scrawled script and eyeing it with interest.

“Dandelion, Geralt’s words hold considerable merit. I would listen to him. I for one am delighted beyond words that you have such an admirable goal in mind, one that you intend to keep working towards. That is already far different from the actions of the poet I used to know many years ago; the one who would pass back and forth between indecision and, if I may be so bold as to say, an enthusiastic penchant for trouble.”

Dandelion eyed him a moment, a brow arched and an unreadable expression on his face that Geralt could not quite place. He was about to question it when Dandelion laughed quietly, relief once again pulling at his tired body and making him slump ever further downwards into his seat. He ran a hand over his face, breathing deeply.

“So neither of you think it’s stupid, then?”

“Not in the slightest,” Regis said immediately. Dandelion opened his eyes and looked at Geralt, the witcher nodding once in agreement to Regis’ words. That seemed to clarify something for Dandelion, and the bard straightened up, taking his journal back and setting it neatly aside on the table next to him with a newfound determination.

“Thank you.” And he meant it.

Geralt looked down at the closest piece of parchment that had flown across the table, and he picked it up out of sheer curiosity. With surprise, he recognised it as a lease for a family estate. He held up the paper.

“Thinking about buying a home for her?”

Dandelion blinked and looked up, eyeing the page a moment. He then shook his head.

“No. Well, I mean, yes, but that’s not the one I’m thinking of getting…” He then trailed off, and a slow smile spread across his lips, as if he had just thought of something particularly enticing for his book. Geralt had seen that look many times before and he narrowed his eyes.

“I’ve been wanting to reclaim my old family estates,” the bard continued without prompting, taking the paper from Geralt and looking at it thoughtfully. “With all this money being thrown around here… thought it might be helpful if I come back into my fortune.”

“Oh, yeah. Keep forgetting you’ve got that fancy name.”

Dandelion rolled his eyes at Geralt’s offhand comment, and Regis idly stroked his chin with his hand.

“Ah, yes. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, if I believe I’ve uttered the whole title correctly.” He chuckled good-naturedly when Dandelion shifted in discomfort in his seat at hearing that.

“Yeah, well… Dandelion’s easier,” the bard admitted. “But nevertheless, it’s no good just having those estates left to rot for bandits or monsters to move in. I was actually thinking – perhaps you’d find a use for some of them, Geralt?”

Geralt blinked.

“What?”

Dandelion’s face positively lit up, and it seemed that the more he thought about it, the more he warmed wholeheartedly to the idea.

“Well, why not? You had a good thing going in Corvo Bianco, Geralt. Granted, there won’t be any vineyards for you to retire to at the end of the day here, but at least it’d be a place to return to whenever you get tired of always being on the Path.”

Geralt was stunned.

“Dandelion… what the hell do—”

“What I’m doing is fixing that glum look on your face, Geralt. Don’t think I didn’t notice. You miss Toussaint. You’re tired of all the travelling. Age has mellowed you, my friend. So take the place – I won’t accept no for an answer. It’s the least I could do for not doing my job well enough when I thought I’d gotten you out of prison for good.”

Not even Regis could offer reply to that, and the vampire joined Geralt in looking utterly taken aback at Dandelion’s generous gesture. Geralt cleared his throat with difficulty.

“Dandelion, you’re a son of a bitch, you know that?”

Dandelion scoffed.

“So you’ll take the place then? Good. I’ve already sent off for the papers to be delivered today, now all you’ll need to do is sign them when the courier gets back—”

“I hadn’t finished.”

Dandelion paused, arching a brow in a silent challenge to the witcher. Geralt held his gaze, eyes narrowed, and then he eventually sighed.

“Damn it.”

If he could have wiped that smirk off the poet’s face, he would have. But as it stood, in reality some part of him was grateful. He reflected back on Regis’ words to him of the apparent need he had to keep searching for a place where he could at last put his swords down and rest, perhaps for good. Now the more he thought about it, the more he realised that it had become a constant niggling in the back of his head – a thought that had burrowed its way deep into the recesses of his brain and had refused to give up its hold on him. 

“I’ll… think about it,” he said at length. “But, Dandelion? Don’t do this again.”

The smile on Dandelion’s face only grew.

“You have my word, Geralt. Oh, that reminds me…” He scratched the back of his neck and nodded his head towards the door. “A couple of people came by the other day looking for you. You weren’t here yet, so they decided to stay in the city until you arrived. Seemed kind of important…”

Geralt stood from his seat.

“Damn it, Dandelion,” he said, eyes narrowing again, “why didn’t you say so earlier? Who were they? What’d they want?”

“Hey, I was busy!” Dandelion said, looking affronted. “I don’t know who they were; one was a bald man with glasses and the other was an old woman. Probably his mother. They just asked to see you and told me to tell you they were staying at The Kingfisher when you arrived.” He now looked confused. “Why they’d want to stay _there_ is beyond me. I mean, we’ve got everything here. Our wine cellar, for starters…” He smiled when Geralt grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, the witcher turning to leave.

“We shall see you later, Dandelion,” Regis said, chuckling as he stood and clasped the bard’s hand. Dandelion waved him off, still grinning. Geralt had only gotten so far as another step forwards when he was stopped, Dandelion calling out lowly to him as Regis walked by. Swearing sharply under his breath, Geralt turned his head and looked at his friend, Regis meanwhile waiting patiently by the front door, a hand poised above the handle. Despite how far away he was standing, however, Dandelion still glanced at Geralt and spoke to him in a whisper.

Geralt didn’t have the heart to tell him that Regis could hear him anyway, but given that he was still annoyed with his friend he didn’t see any reason why he should do so in the first place.

“Promise me you’ll take the place, at least for even a couple of days, Geralt. You both need somewhere to stay in-between doing whatever the hell it is you do when you’re out hunting monsters down and filling out contracts.”

Geralt blinked.

“Excuse me?”

Dandelion arched a brow, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“You heard what I said, witcher. It’s obvious there’s… something… going on, here.” He motioned to Regis. “Now I’m not one to judge, so I’m not going to. But if you think you were doing a damn good job of hiding it, you couldn’t have been more wrong, my friend.” He smiled, and Geralt felt a groan tear from his throat.

“Dandelion, I—”

“You’re besotted with him. I don’t think you realised it yourself, but back when we were travelling together there’d be times when the rest of us would look at the two of you and start wondering if maybe… _just_ maybe...” The bard laughed lightly, looking pleased at himself. “If we’d have placed a bet on it like I’d suggested at first, I’d have come into some good coin by now.”

Geralt felt the muscles in his jaw clench. Dandelion rolled his eyes.

“Stop being melodramatic, Geralt. Can’t you see I’m happy for you? Of course, for the sake of continuity I’m going to have keep writing about you and Yennefer, but that’s a minor matter.” He waved his hand. “This can be the story about a secret affair that happened under the cover of night—”

“You’re not seriously going to write that, are you?”

Dandelion smirked.

“No, I was just pulling your leg.” Seeing Geralt’s growing irritation, the bard sighed softly and fell silent for a moment. He steepled his fingers under his chin, gazing down at the papers strewn before him on the tabletop. “Geralt, you both deserve this. I couldn’t be happier for both of you. So I wanted to do this. For you. I’ve been a shit friend in the time we’ve known each other and it’s time I started acting like a good one.”

“So that’s why you didn’t question us being in the same room together,” Geralt said after a moment, putting two and two together. He ran a hand over his eyes, gritting his teeth in the process. Dandelion smiled.

“Yep.”

“How much vodka did you actually drink this morning?” Geralt asked quietly. Dandelion grimaced.

“Enough to make me feel sick. But believe you me, I’m as clear headed now as I was before. I didn’t drink myself into a stupor, Geralt. I know exactly what I’m saying and I mean every word of it. Now go,” he nodded his head to the door and to Regis, “I’ll make sure the keys are ready by the time you both get back.”

Geralt froze, feeling a sudden unwillingness in his limbs to leave. But eventually he shook his head, reaching out to clasp Dandelion’s hand in a firm shake. When they locked eyes, Geralt felt himself smile despite everything. Dandelion seemed proud, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

“Oh, and Geralt?” He said as the witcher turned around again. His grin was back on his lips, and had grown tenfold. “Next time you plan on shagging the hell out of each other all night long, make sure to keep it down a little.”    

Geralt grit his teeth, thinking twice about throwing a rude gesture with his hand to the bard over his shoulder as he ignored the fresh bout of laughter that resounded behind him. By the look on Regis’ face when the witcher at last approached him, his lover appeared on the verge of laughing himself.

"Perhaps we should apologise at a later date,” Regis smiled. Geralt glared at him.

“I’m gonna kill him.”

Regis chuckled, opening the door as they left to press forwards into the throng of people that flooded the busy streets of Novigrad’s early afternoon crowds.

 

*

 

Hierarch Square was busier than Geralt had ever remembered it.

He did not know if it was the fine weather that drew so many people out of their houses to throng and mingle with one another in the crowded streets, the sun warm on the skin but the breeze fresh and cool, or if it was the merchants who crowded here today promising bargains aplenty and resettling into their former trades after Nilfgaard had at last left the city and the war had ended.

Perhaps it may have been both, or for a reason altogether entirely different – but no matter the cause, the crowds were a suffocating blanket of people that ran to and fro and talked and laughed and cheered at minstrels and jugglers performing in the centre of the bustling stalls. It was hard trying to press their way onwards through the thick flood of limbs, and it was a miracle at all that they managed.

“And Dandelion reckons that half of Novigrad showed up to his performance last night,” Geralt called out over the roar of the crowd. Regis grinned.

“You know better than I that his exaggerations should always be taken lightly,” he replied. Geralt chuckled. That he _did_ know.

The clock tower, its face a superbly crafted plethora of the most exquisite coloured marble and stones, rose high above the heads of those gathered, and Geralt noted that the time was approaching the luncheon hour. His stomach grumbled mildly in protest, and he made note to amend that as soon as possible. Beside him Regis contented himself with observing the crowds, his eyes seeming to shine with all manner of intrigue as they passed stall after stall, and Geralt couldn’t resist the smirk when his lover uttered offhand comments to him about the more questionably sourced items in stock.

As it was, with all this distraction it drew to near a half hour later that they saw the doors of The Kingfisher before them, the tavern settled neatly in place beside a gaping archway that marked the first of the divisions of the city from the middle class to the upper societies. A group of citizens milled and dawdled around the public noticeboard, making it hard to reach the stairs at first, but soon they had managed and found themselves at the door.

The tavern was relatively larger than Dandelion’s prized Chameleon, and lacked the theatrical ornamentation that Dandelion had so painstakingly refurbished each wall with. Indeed, this was a tavern that counted some of the most distinguished names in Novigrad as its many patrons, and Geralt knew from past experience that many of these patrons proved excellent contractors – if only by the thick pouch of gold that he had been awarded one previous instance wherein he had solved the mystery of a lord’s supposedly haunted manor home. Infested not by ghosts as was previously thought, it had instead become the prison of a trapped elemental that had only sought to free itself from its ancient bonds.

Thinking back to the weighty purse of crowns, Geralt could almost forgive what a dick the man had been when he’d gone back to say that the job had been finished and he’d turned away to leave. It never failed to amuse him how many people still didn’t realise that voices carried far to one whose sense of hearing was already far superior to their own.

“I presume you know who these people are that Dandelion was referring to?”

Geralt was roused from his thoughts by Regis beside him, the vampire having taken a moment to turn to the witcher with a brow raised. Geralt scoffed.

“Don’t pretend like you haven’t got an idea yourself.”

Any further comment Regis was set to make promptly died on his lips, his black eyes seeming to centre in on something behind Geralt’s shoulder. He smiled, careful to hide his fangs, and he quickly returned his full attention to the man.

“Hm, you’re quite right, as always. I have no doubts in the slightest.”

Geralt turned, wanting to determine the cause of his lover’s sudden cryptic behaviour. He got his answer immediately, standing there just by the noticeboard. Two very familiar and very dear figures to the witcher had just paused to read the various lists and notices of the day, standing arm in arm and conversing quietly to one another when they felt eyes upon them and turned.

“Well I'll be damned,” Geralt muttered, shaking his head and grinning when recognition lit up Barnabas-Basil’s eyes, the majordomo of Corvio Bianco lifting a hand in a genial wave to Corvo Bianco’s former owner whilst his glasses were on the verge of threatening to fall off his nose from the way his eyes crinkled with the force of his wide smile. Marlene’s wizened face peered out from under the brim of her sun hat, and she raised both arms to clasp either side of Geralt’s face as soon as he drew close, the woman laughing gleefully at seeing the witcher once again.

Regis watched it all, feeling a sense of deep satisfaction at the sight they made; Geralt was chuckling, embracing Marlene with great care, and he straightened up to clap Barnabas-Basil firmly on the shoulder, shaking his head once more in utter disbelief. He spared a moment to let them talk, not wishing to intrude on a reunion that was surely long overdue. However, he could not entirely hide the quirk of his lips when Geralt waved him over with an impatient flick of his hand.

“It’s good to see you two again,” Geralt was saying when Regis at last drew up beside him once more, Geralt both surprised yet glad to see Regis being greeted with a firm shake of his hand by B.B., and a heartfelt greeting and hug from Marlene, just as he had done. He could tell by the look on Regis’ face that the vampire was just as surprised, though grateful all the same.

“Indeed. It has been far too long, sir,” B.B. responded amiably, bowing his head in a nod. “I take it master Dandelion informed you of our whereabouts?”

“He did. Though probably later than he should have,” Geralt answered. “We were just about to head inside and ask for you. Didn’t expect to see you waiting out here.”

“I’m afraid that was entirely my fault,” Marlene said softly, and there was a light in her eyes as she lifted her head to gaze around the square, taking in the crowds that thrummed around them. “I simply could not sit inside on a day like this. The sights, the sounds – I find it good to be among crowds such as this again.”

Geralt smiled and he felt a warmth settle itself in his chest. He was pleased to see that Marlene had at last decided to venture out to see the world that she had been denied in all her years cursed as a wight – and that she had indeed kept her promise of meeting them both in Novigrad as soon as she was able. He was also pleased that Barnabas-Basil had gone with her, knowing the liking that the two shared for each other’s company and friendship. He could think of no better guide to see her through the winding streets and alleys of the city.

“No need to apologise,” he said. “I’m just happy you’re out here enjoying yourself.”

“Oh I am. Very much so,” she gushed, and Geralt could see colour at last return to her cheeks.

“If you will permit me to say so, sir, Miss Marlene and I were just about to dine for luncheon,” B.B. continued, and the smile on his lips was infectious as he gazed at both the witcher and vampire. “I can think of no better reason for having you both accompany us. Indeed, it would give us time to talk. We’ve been most interested in hearing how your journeys have fared.”

“I think that would be most agreeable,” Regis said warmly, and Geralt stepped back to outstretch an arm, indicating that B.B. and Marlene should take the lead.

“Won’t say no to that, either. We’ll follow you.”

And so they did. As it turned out, a table had been booked in The Kingfisher, and as they entered the tavern, Geralt was surprised to see how much the place had changed; a fresh lick of paint had lightened the walls and the tables and counters had been polished to near shining. The stage had grown in size, too, and with amusement Geralt wondered if it perhaps had anything to do with the vying business between this tavern and Dandelion’s own.

The roar of the crowds outside grew distant when the door closed behind them, and the scent of freshly brewed ale and roasted meats assaulted the nose as they were guided through the milling patrons who sat, ate and drank and talked about politics and economies and all manner of things that Geralt did not care to listen to. His stomach growled again when he passed by a plate of hearty broth at one such patron’s table, and he found he was glad that they had been given the offer of lunch.

B.B. nodded to the innkeeper, a young man whom Geralt did not recognise but assumed had taken over from Olivier, and he paused by a door that Geralt knew opened out into the side street. It was not the street as Geralt was expecting it, however, and when they found themselves back outside once more he found they were now standing in a newly refurbished open courtyard complete with tables, chairs, and vine-covered partition screens that offered some modicum of shade.

He whistled, impressed by what had been done to the place, and he made to sit himself down at the table that B.B. gestured them to; he grinned as he watched the majordomo help Marlene in her seat, pushing her chair in after she had sat down and then moving to lay her napkin over her lap, much to the woman’s amusement and light-hearted tittering. He then laughed, saying that he could do it himself when B.B. motioned to do the same for him, and he was equally amused to see that Regis said much the same when B.B. turned to him after. The man merely chuckled.

“My apologies, sirs,” he said as he sat himself down and beamed at them. “Old habits die hard.”

“You’re too proper for your own good, B.B.,” Geralt replied. B.B. inclined his head in a bow.

“As befits the position of majordomo.” There was a twitch of a smile upon the man’s lips.

“Gentlemen, let us save this talk for later,” Marlene said warmly. “I’m most keen to sate my appetite; the scent of that braised beef has stirred a hunger within my stomach. I’m eager to see if it lives up to the very same meals my household once served. And then, perhaps while we eat, we might learn of all that's happened to you both.”

There was no word of protest to Marlene’s suggestion, and indeed, as Geralt and Regis swapped small smiles, that is exactly what they did.

 

*

 

As they settled down for their afternoon meal, Geralt found a great sense of familiarity surround him; an old longing tugged at his chest as they sat there, watching the crowds pass by under the shade of the courtyard.

He remembered a time, long ago now, where he had once been seated among the shade of the trees and vines that wrapped around the dining area outside Corvo Bianco’s walls. Seated upon the lower balconies, a view of the vineyards swathed in dusk’s light was a breathtaking sight to behold as Geralt recalled the evening conversations with B.B. and Marlene held in the warm spring nights.

He would tell them of his days in the city and the surrounding duchy, undertaking contracts as they listened with rapt attention. They would eat – Marlene’s cooking a truly glorious feast that Geralt was certain would put the ducal table to shame. And around them, the workers called to one another, whistling, laughing and celebrating in their own way as they prepared to retire for the night, ready to start the next day anew.

Those were memories that the witcher looked upon fondly, and in his chest he felt an aching desire for something he did not fully realise he had wanted until Regis had first brought it to light, back in Rivia and then again that very morning. Stirring from his thoughts now, as he heard the vampire in question and Barnabas-Basil exchanging knowledge of the finest wines, whilst Marlene merely listened and enjoyed the warmth of the sun upon her skin, he took a moment to survey the situation, to study the picture as it stood before him.

Here, his oldest of friends, his closest confidante, his _lover_ now sat with them – a smile upon his lips as he joined the conversations, speaking and laughing with the two who eagerly listened to the vampire begin to retell their journey as it stood since he and Geralt had left Toussaint. It was utterly different from sharing their story with Dandelion and Zoltan; here, the mood was more relaxed and carefree – something that was so closely reminiscent of those spring nights in the vineyards that Geralt could not honestly tell one from the other.

And that was when he realised, at last, and in full.

This was what he had been missing out on. This was what he longed for, almost as much as he longed constantly for Regis’ presence beside him.

He had to resist the urge to shake his head. He had grown sentimental in his old age – surprisingly so. Here he was, thinking things that never before would he have dared consider. But now…

Now he didn’t mind in the slightest.

He’d been mellowed down, indeed. He wondered who he had to thank for that. Perhaps Regis. Perhaps their journey and how it had drawn them closer together. Or perhaps himself.

Perhaps all three.

It was certainly something that gave him pause for thought – and as he refocused his attention on the conversations, drawing himself out of the meditative lull of his mind, he allowed that very thought to hover in the back of his brain, a welcoming presence as he pondered its meaning and what it had in store for him, and for them all.

“—such a thrilling tale! By such good graces, it would appear that luck remained constantly at your side!” B.B. exclaimed, as Regis finished. The vampire chuckled.

“So it would appear. I for one am grateful for that – our journey has certainly been most eventful.”

Marlene sighed blissfully, swirling her glass of wine.

“Eventful, but fascinating! I grow more envious by the minute.”

The vampire smiled, careful to hide his fangs though Geralt had no doubts by now that both Marlene and B.B. already knew what he truly was.

“Doesn’t sound like you were very worried about us,” the witcher announced teasingly, drawing everyone’s attention. Marlene’s eyes softened at him.

“How could I be? You risk your life every day and always succeed against all odds, witcher. I knew that you and master Regis would have no troubles whatsoever. So I prayed for a swift journey for you both to Novigrad’s walls.”

“Must’ve worked,” Geralt answered, returning the gentle clasp of her hand and as she reached out to thread her fingers around his.

“Of course it did,” she announced, nodding and tightening her hand reassuringly. Geralt felt a renewed warmth and affection for the old woman, and he grinned. Beside him he could almost feel the answering smile on Regis’ lips, and he didn’t need to turn his head to see that the vampire had quickly warmed to her as well; he had been listening carefully as the pair conversed about Marlene’s curse, and Regis had been beyond intrigued to hear the whole story. Through such a story Geralt had seen how they had connected, and how a weight had fallen off the vampire’s shoulders. He had never gotten the chance to speak with her, to learn through her eyes and her words how her curse came to be, and Geralt knew that if it was remotely within Regis’ power, he would have done all he could to have helped Geralt with breaking the foul magic that had ensnared her.

“What about you? Must’ve been quite a journey you both had yourselves if you only arrived just before we did,” Geralt continued, looking at B.B. who nodded.

“Quite a journey, yes,” the majordomo announced. “Though regrettably, or perhaps fortunately, not nearly as unique as yours.”

“Which can be a very good thing, in most instances,” Regis added. “I cannot think of many who would so readily attempt what we’ve done.”

“Those are true words you speak, sir,” B.B. agreed sincerely. He sat back in his seat, a glass of wine to his lips, and Geralt and Regis waited patiently for him to continue. “Shortly after you left for the highways, there was much to do concerning the estate’s property and ownership. The duchess had sent her men to discuss the matter with us that very afternoon, and after careful consideration of our options, we agreed that we would relinquish the property and its upkeep to the ducal chamberlain’s command yet again. It took three days for all to be put in order, and then I made the decision to accompany Miss Marlene to Novigrad.” He gently patted Marlene’s hand as she laid it on his arm, and the woman smiled.

“Barnabas-Basil has always taken great care of me when you have been off on your contracts, witcher,” she continued. “I did not think it right to leave without first asking if he would wish to come with me. He has been a dear friend to me in the short time that I have known him.”

“Know the feeling well,” Geralt nodded. “B.B.’s always been a reliable guy.”

“Your words do me great honour, sir,” the majordomo smiled. “And so, we boarded ship at the Beauclair port, en route to Cintra. We regrettably did not stay there long, as much of the city is still being rebuilt after the war many years ago, but there were indeed many historical sites that even now scholars are working to preserve for future generations to come.”

“We were most interested in the royal palace and the excavations that are still taking place today,” Marlene added. “I do not think I’ve ever seen such excitement in one place!”

“Indeed, it was difficult to find us a ship that would take us to Novigrad proper,” B.B. agreed. “Such was the commotion… the line of eager visitors to Cintra stretched towards the very castle itself!”

Geralt listened raptly, both arms crossed over the table as he leant in. He had forgotten B.B.’s enthralling method of story-telling, his descriptions passionate and ecstatic. He reckoned that the man could possibly even rival Regis with his enthusiasm.

The time passed quickly, he found, as they sat there listening to the story – of how, on their route from Cintra to Novigrad, they had spent close to three weeks upon a ship that they had been most fortunate to find in time; here, they were joined by many other travellers seeking to make for the city, and such a journey was made all the more pleasant by the new friends they had made, and the peaceful waters that they sailed.

They then set foot on the Novigrad docks when they at last made port, and the lure of the world’s largest city was one that could hardly be ignored. They told of the quick journey they made to Dandelion, asking if he had heard from the witcher. He had not, and so they had decided to settle in The Kingfisher as Marlene, in her youth, had once had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with a young serving girl whose parents had been the cooks of the Novigrad tavern many generations ago.

They were quick to explore, and even now Marlene laughed as she recalled how she had almost gotten lost numerous times, so caught up in the excitement of people and the heady rush of a busy city square as she was.

“And that is how you so fortunately came across us, as we were perusing the stalls in Hierarch Square,” B.B. finished off, patting Marlene fondly on the hand again. “A most fortuitous coincidence indeed.”

It was, neither Geralt nor Regis could deny it.

The afternoon had now worn on, and the crowds had at last begun to lessen as their conversation eased into a gentle lull, wine being sipped and the last of their meals being eaten. A swift change had come with the coolness of the breeze that brushed past them, and Geralt looked upwards, seeing clouds begin to streak across the sky, casting the land in momentary shadow before allowing the sun to resurface once more. He could almost smell the rain in the wind.

“What happened to Corvo Bianco in the end?” He asked when their plates and glasses had been cleared, and their stomachs were full. “Did the duchess give it to anyone else?”

B.B. sighed then, and even Marlene appeared to glance down at her hands atop the table.

“No, she did not,” the majordomo said after a moment, sounding hesitant. “Forgive me, sir, I did not wish to trouble you with this news, but… she has seized the estate and the vineyards and has plans to transfer much of the production from Castel Ravello to its new sister-vineyard. We had no say in the matter. The servants were dismissed, as was my role of your majordomo. I was offered a place in the court to help oversee the new production, but… I did not feel that it would be best suited for my interests. I refused.”

Geralt nodded, saying nothing. He had a feeling that Anna Henrietta would pull something like that, and he had suspected as much when B.B. had first told them that they had to relinquish the property to the chamberlain. But still hearing it confirmed for him caused an uncomfortable twinge in his chest, like the bite of a drowner in a murky swamp.

“Ah well. You’re here now. That’s what matters, right?”

“Indeed we are, sir,” B.B. said quietly. “Though, and it brings me great discomfort to say it so bluntly, we may have no place to turn to after this.”

Geralt made up his mind.

“Not true,” he said, reclining back in his seat. Barnabas-Basil’s bespectacled eyes blinked at him, and Marlene turned her head to glance, surprised, at the witcher.

“Sir?” The majordomo queried.

“May have a place lined up – Dandelion sorted it out earlier,” he explained, and he could see Regis tilt his head towards him in interest out the corner of his eye. “Says he wanted to reclaim some of his old family estates and wanted me to look after one of ‘em.” He then paused a moment, and uttered a dry laugh as he rubbed a hand over his face. “Somewhere, someone out there is laughing at me.”

He didn’t believe in fate, but it appeared that something or  _someone_ out there did. He didn’t know whether to laugh or grit his teeth in frustration. He settled on both.

“Would you… _truly?_ Sir, we…” B.B. trailed off, apparently uncertain as to how to best voice his thoughts. Marlene cleared her throat.

“Witcher,” she said slowly, “you do us great honour… but, we cannot possibly dare intrude—”

“No one’s intruding,” Geralt interrupted. “I want to do this. There’s no vineyards to tend to, but at this stage we’re all without a place to stay unless the duchess suddenly decides to relent and give you the estate back. I don’t think she’s gonna do that, somehow.” And the more he thought about it, the more he warmed to the idea.

He saw Regis smile from the corner of his eye.

Geralt warmed to the idea completely.

“Well, then… nothing would give me greater joy,” B.B. said sincerely, not even bothering to hide the eagerness in his voice, and Marlene bowed her head to hide the smile that settled upon her lips. “I accept, sir.”

“As do I,” Marlene whispered.

Geralt fought to keep the grin from his lips. Everything, for once, seemed to align in place.

“Joy’s all mine. Looking forward to seeing you around again. Damn least I could do.”

And so the afternoon passed further into the early clutches of evening, and it was with wide smiles and heartfelt embraces that Geralt and Regis bid farewell to Barnabas-Basil and Marlene, the two seeking to retire for the night. Geralt had promised to send word to them as soon as Dandelion had sorted out the final arrangements for his estate, and it was with a light heart that he joined Regis in returning to The Chameleon, the streets thankfully now much easier to navigate in the pending dusk than they were in the peak of the afternoon.

“That was a wonderful thing you did, Geralt,” Regis said beside him as they walked. “Have I ever expressed to you before how you never cease to amaze me?”

Geralt chuckled.

“Rings a bell.”

Regis’ fingers brushed his, and Geralt took a slow breath, holding it a moment before exhaling. The afternoon had been a whirlwind, and only now did he feel the effects sweep him up and throw him off course. He had much to plan, much to think about. He felt an excitement that he had never known before; one that came with a deep sense of fulfilment at doing what was _right_.

But most of all, he felt at peace. And that was a strange feeling for a witcher.

“Don’t think of running off, Regis,” he said under his breath. “Place is for you just as much as it is for me. Stay with me.”

Regis slowed his steps, coming to a gradual halt. When Geralt noticed he was now walking alone, he blinked and turned around, backtracking until he paused in front of his lover. He was going to question if anything was wrong, at first, until he saw the way Regis’ eyes softened, and his mouth twitched with the urge to split into a grin so wide his fangs would be bared for all to see.

“As if I would do any less,” he said softly. “Geralt… my place is at your side, always. I cannot even dream of a day passing without you being a constant, beautiful presence in my life. You know this. It shall continue to remain so.”

Geralt huffed.

“It better.”

“It will.”

Geralt smiled, chuckling at the sight they must have made. Thankfully the street they had been walking was now all but empty, and only the dogs could be heard in the distance as city goers retreated into their houses and the taverns for dinner. He took a step forwards, reaching out a hand to caress the vampire’s cheek. He saw the faint glint of the ring he wore as it reflected the glow of a lantern that had since been lit above, and he eyed it with a mix of growing amusement and pride.

“Damn it. I’m old,” he said, more to himself than Regis. “Think we need a damn rest first thing when Dandelion gets everything sorted.”

Regis laughed, cupping his hand over Geralt’s and pressing a kiss to the inside of his palm.

“Indeed. We have saved villages, become the unsuspecting targets of a heinous criminal underworld, and have slain monsters in the hopes of achieving some modicum of peace, to name only the bare minimum. I daresay after all these great and weighty events that have crossed our paths since leaving Toussaint, we deserve a bit of a rest.”

Geralt looked at him, reminded of the last time Regis had said something similar to him; a moonlit night, campfire roaring before them with mugs of mandrake brew sloshing around merrily in their hands.

He recalled that night, and now imagined another in its place: laughter, food and wine passed back and forth as they sat in a house with a roof over their heads and company to join them. It should have concerned him, but it didn’t. It was a semblance of home, perhaps of a home that he had never had before. It called to him with tempting promise, enticing him to reach out and claim it for his own.

He pressed his hand more firmly against Regis’ cheek, making his decision. He smiled as they closed the distance, pulling each other into that kiss that sealed that promise and made it whole. He was powerless to stop the grin that claimed him as he pulled back, whispering against those pale lips.

“That we do.”  

 

*

 

 

This absolutely  _gorgeous_ fanart is by [tauntingcrow](https://tauntingcrow.tumblr.com/). Please give her lots of love and check out her other artworks! Thank you so much, my friend! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much again to all those who left comments, kudos and bookmarks - it was honestly a whole lot more than what I was expecting and it means a lot to me <3 
> 
> Finally, huge thanks as always to [NorthSol](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthSol) for the feedback and support, and of course to [tauntingcrow](https://tauntingcrow.tumblr.com/) again for her lovely fanart <3
> 
> Thanks again everyone!


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